


Once Upon A Time in the West

by NyxEtoile, OlivesAwl



Series: Have Gun - Will Travel [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Western, Epic, F/M, Gen, Multiple Pairings, POV Multiple, Tropes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-25
Updated: 2016-02-08
Packaged: 2018-05-07 21:21:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 20
Words: 76,810
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5471210
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NyxEtoile/pseuds/NyxEtoile, https://archiveofourown.org/users/OlivesAwl/pseuds/OlivesAwl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <img/>
</p><hr/><p><b>The Cattle Baron</b> - <i>Alexander Pierce runs the town of Triskelion with an iron fist, his own private fiefdom, the only thorn in his side is</i></p><p><b>The Madam</b> - <i>Natasha Romanova has fought too hard to find a home to give it up now, so she asks for help from</i></p><p><b>The Deputy</b> - <i>Clint Barton thought he left Triskelion behind a long time ago, but when his old love writes him, he hops a stage and meets</i></p><p><b>The Marshal</b> - <i>Steve Rogers came west to find his childhood friend, he never expected to get caught up in a fight for the weirdest little town he's ever seen</i></p><p><i>And it all happens</i> <b>Once Upon a Time in the West</b></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Hostile Country

**Author's Note:**

> Merry Christmas! We wrote a western.
> 
> Story originally inspired by this [gifset](http://mamalaz.tumblr.com/post/98396127592/the-avengers-as-a-western-steve-is-the-sheriff), and then it took on an epic life of its own.
> 
> Many of you have requested a story with ALL our characters in it, including Syn and Loki and the Avengers and our other beloved OCs. Here it is. All of them. Together. In a western. You're welcome. (Well, except the Maximoffs. We've been working on this since long before AoU. Which is not to say there won't be a sequel, because we're us.)
> 
> We're both fans of westerns and had a lot of fun trying to hit every single movie trope we could think of. We made a pass at historical accuracy, but fully admit we sacrificed here and there for the sake of plot and tropes. Pretend you're watching a movie with John Wayne in it and enjoy the ride.
> 
> Will post 2-3 times a week as I build an edited buffer. Title and all chapter titles are from western movie titles.

_Triskelion, Kansas, 1868._

Natasha Romanova looked at the letter in her hand, rereading the lines for what might have been the fifth time. She was used to people leaving her life and never returning. Starting with her parents. The other orphans she'd grown up with. Girls in the brothels she'd worked in. The man she'd come to think of as a surrogate father, who had thought enough of her to leave her his saloon and shotgun. People left and they didn't come back. That's what life was.

Here in her hand was a letter from the abyss. Words from a man she thought she might have loved, given a little more time. He'd left, the way everyone else did. And now he wanted her to join him. He wanted her to be the one who left.

She dug through the drawers of the huge wooden desk she had inherited along with a saloon and arsenal. Finding paper and pen, she set it out and started to write in the careful, clean hand the nuns at the orphanage had taught her, neatness beaten in with whacks to her knuckles.

_Dearest Clint,_

_I was very surprised to get your letter. Happy, too. I'm glad you've found somewhere to settle. I'm flattered you want me to see it. But I can't leave Triskelion right now. Things have changed a bit since you left and, well, I don't know what would happen if I left now._

It took two pages and a hand cramp to tell him everything he'd missed in the years he'd been gone. When she was done, she half convinced herself not to send it. But it had felt good to get it all out. To feel like she was throwing a line out into the abyss. Maybe it would save her.

The letter went out on the next wagon.

*

The train from Chicago to Omaha was crowded, but from there west, on track that hadn't existed when Clint came east. West of Omaha it was pretty empty, enough that he took to studying the other characters sharing the car with him. Most of them, he guessed, were heading west to work on the railroad itself, which was rapidly expanding its way towards California. Two of them, he was fairly certain were not railroad workers. One of those two he was fairly certain was a lawman.

They'd gotten into a small argument with each other. He couldn't tell what it was over, and was fairly certain they didn't know each other. Just personalities that clashed. It was annoying they'd decided to argue in the dining car, where he'd gone to get some peace and quiet.

They sounded eastern, the both of them. Maybe they were civilized enough this wouldn't end in a fist or knife fight. He dug out his bottle of whiskey and eyed them. "Anyone thirsty?"

They both turned to look at him in surprise. For a moment, they stared like he had a second head. Then the darker one, with a well trimmed beard, held his hand out. "Always."

He leaned over to pass the bottle. "People get stir crazy on these trains."

The man took a long swig and nodded. "I never much liked being cooped up."

"I've got a Stage after this, that’s even worse."

"Where you headed?" the other man asked. He was blond, clean shaven and clean cut. But he took the whiskey bottle from the first man without a comment.

"South. Kansas." As desperately as he didn't want to go back, here he was, on this train. "Town's gone to shit. I'm hoping to go, get my girl, and get back on the Stage."

"That bad, huh?"

"The local big shot has turned it into his own personal . . .kingdom, I suppose. Not my style. Sounds like if I stay too long I'll end up dead anyway."

Dark Hair shook his head. "Give a big ego a little power and you're in for trouble. I speak from experience. You're better to get out."

He shrugged. "She thinks she needs to stay. So on this train I sit."

"Must be some girl."

That she was. This entire escapade was crazy. He hadn't really expected her to come when he wrote her. He should have just taken her no at face value. But she sounded. . .scared. Five minutes after reading it, he'd been packing. "What about you two?"

"Just wandering," Dark Hair said. "Had some trouble getting back to my old life after the war. Thought maybe new sights would help. Maybe dig up some silver."

Clint judged both accents to be northern, so he tipped his hat a little. "Ninth Kansas Cavalry, then 2nd US Sharpshooters."

"Sixty-ninth New York," the blond one offered.

Dark Hair sighed. He was the one who mentioned the war. "Twentieth Massachusetts." He took the bottle back from Clint. "And Andersonville Prison."

Clint whistled, and Dark hair shrugged. He'd probably wander the west, too, if it were him. The silence stretched, and then the blond one asked, "Anybody have a deck of cards?"

Dark Hair grinned and rummaged in an inner pocket of his jacket, pulling out a well loved deck. "I suppose that's a better way to pass the time than chatting." He touched the brim of his hat. "Anthony Stark, by the way. Tony to my friends."

"Clint Barton. You boys play poker?"

"I dabble," Stark said.

"It's been a while," New York admitted. "But I'll manage. Steve Rogers."

"You headed out west?" Stark asked him as he shuffled the cards.

"I'm looking for someone," he said. "War buddy who went a little off. He helped get me through, I figure I owe it to him to try to track him down."

"The west is a very big place," Clint commented. Stark began to deal what looked like 5 card stud.

"I have time. And some leads. Last I heard he was working as a freelance gunslinger. He's missing an arm, so he stands out a bit. I'll just follow the rumors and legends until I catch up to him."

Clint rifled in his pocket at pulled out Natasha's letter. He scanned through it until he found the mention he thought he remembered. "Is it his left arm?"

Rogers stilled and looked at him, glancing down at the papers in his hand. "Yes. High up, above the elbow."

"I think you might want to get on the Stage with me."

"Well, this just got interesting," Stark said.

"Come along, then. I bet it will be a show."

He studied his cards a moment, then shrugged. "Why not? The silver will still be there when I'm done."

*

It was a cool, rainy afternoon. The saloon was quiet and Natasha was cleaning the mirrors. The floors were already a mess, but there was no helping that until the mud outside dried. She glanced over her shoulder when the doors swung open, then went back to cleaning when she saw it was the town doctor. "Help yourself, doc."

Dr. Banner came around the bar to pour himself some whiskey. "I've been up all night," he said. "Claire Murdock had yet another girl."

"And how did Mr. Murdock handle this bit of excitement?"

"Better than I would have—though I expect he'll wander through your doors at some point soon."

She gave the mirror she was working on one last swipe and went over to join him. "You should finish that up and get some sleep. That the man was fifteen years her senior did not stop her from mothering him at times.

"Yeah." He rubbed his eyes. "You ever think about getting out of this town?"

She thought about the letter tucked away in her dresser upstairs. Probably the last bit of Clint she'd ever have. "Sometimes," she admitted. "But what about everyone else?"

He squinted at her for a moment, then said, "Fury tried to look after everyone, and look how he ended up."

"I'll sleep better dead than I will leaving this town to rot." She poured herself a glass of whiskey and knocked it back. "Pierce'll leave me alone. He doesn't want to dirty his hands with whores. And he won't keep order long without them."

"I think about just hopping on the stage on day. Go further west. I hear Colorado Territory is nice."

Nat tilted her head. "You think about that on your bad days or your good ones?"

He took a swallow of his whiskey. "The bad days don't involve that much thinking." Doc had some sort of mental condition. Nat didn't really know what it was. Most of the time he was normal, and then sometimes something would snap, and he'd be someone else. Angry, violent, and far stronger than he looked. On a regular day she was pretty sure _she_ could arm wrestle him. During the rages he could take down the strongest men in town. He'd trashed the saloon twice, but always came to clean it up. But he was an excellent doctor, especially out here on the frontier. . . so the town just sort of put up with it. Fury told her once he'd been a surgeon during the war. 

"No one would blame you if you left. Not even me." She put her glass in the dirty bucket and went back to cleaning. "I do hear good things about Colorado. Avoid Nevada, though. Nothing good comes out of Nevada."

"You'd never get another doctor to come here. Not with the way things are."

She brightened a little. "Would give me some incentive to shoot the hell out of Pierce next time he made an appearance."

"Don't say that too loud. You never know what ears the walls have."

"He's an egomaniac, not God. I'll say what I please in my own place." She walked around the bar to start setting up chairs and tables. The rain would keep some people away, but not everyone, and she hated to be caught flat footed.

"Just be careful. That's all I'm saying."

His concern touched her and she smiled. She imagined someday his better instincts would prevail and he'd leave like everyone else. But for now, she enjoyed having him around. "I'm always careful, Doc."

"Good." He looked out the windows. "Storm is getting worse. I bet the Stage is going to be late."

Glancing upwards, she prayed the roof would last one more season. "You expecting anything?"

"No. But they wake the whole town coming through, and I know you hate dealing with bunking the passengers in the middle of the night." Their town's primary feature was that it was an overnight stop for the stage lines, and stop on the cattle trail. Though a couple of months ago the town blacksmith had died in a mysterious "accident" after refusing to pay the increasing tribute to the corrupt boss who ran the town. The drivers complained bitterly when they couldn't get horses shoed or axels fixed on a stop that was supposed to have a blacksmith.

If they lost the stage stop, God only knew how bad things would get. Bunking prissy Easterners was annoying, but their coin was good and sometimes one of her girls caught their eye. The drivers were good, regular customers and brought her news and gossip, which was a different kind of currency in this town.

"If it's Cal Bennet driving they'll make it in time. He drives the horses like Satan's on his tail," was all she said.

"You expecting something?" he asked.

Hope was a dangerous thing. She'd learned that a long time ago. Still she heard herself say, "Mail, maybe."

Banner nodded, looking back at his drink. The saloon doors opened with a bang to reveal a tall, slim woman in a mud-streaked skirt and shirtwaist. She grimaced and stomped her boots a little before entering. "Sorry, the door got away from me in the wind."

The Doc sighed deeply. "Newbury, what are you doing here?"

The woman wound through the tables, stepping over the worst of the streaked mud. "You've been out of my sight for two hours," she said, tugging the pocket watch she wore on her skirt. "I check in with you when that happens."

"The delivery required a drink." He nudge the bottle in her direction. "I thought you were going home to sleep." Amanda Newbury was Doc's nurse, assistant, and. . . minder, of a sort. She helped wrangle him when he was in one of his rages. He'd apparently known her from the war, proclaiming her faster with a saw than he was, should anyone ever need a limb taken off.

Nat slid her a glass as she sat. Newbury gratefully poured herself a couple of fingers. "I sleep when you sleep," she informed Banner before taking a drink.

"You take your role as babysitter far too seriously," he told her.

"If I'm not your babysitter than this is the most disappointing marriage I've ever been a part of."

"You are also an excellent nurse." 

"Thank you," she said with a smile. "Are you going to sleep soon?"

"Yes, but Natasha just reminded me, I should see if the Murdocks want any letters to go out this week."

Nat waved a hand. "I'll send one of the more respectable girls over to ask. You should really get some sleep." Amanda sent her a grateful look.

After a moment, he nodded. "Thank you."

She gave him a gentle smile. "You're welcome. Go on with you."

*

The stage wasn't too crowded, but the weather was bad. Wind brought the rain inside even thought the flaps were down. Clint was watching the sky through the gaps. Looked like tornado weather to him. He doubted either of his new companions had ever seen one.

The carriage jerked and came to an abrupt stop. Shouting voices, followed by gunfire.

Clint and Rogers exchanged a look. He'd spotted the gun holster on the blonde man when they were getting off the train. He suspected there was a badge of some sort hidden in his coat, as well. Man didn't strike him as a gun for hire. Still, lawmen had gun skills or they didn't last long. Rogers gave him a nod and Clint pushed the door open to check out the commotion. A bullet struck the door, and he ducked back. He could see at least four men, plus someone who had climbed the carriage. The driver and shotgun were both on the ground.

He help up five fingers at Rogers, who nodded. There were two other passengers, and Stark had busied himself herding them to the frontmost seats out of the way. It was a middle aged man and woman who looked terrified. Rogers turned long enough flash a badge with a six-pointed star at them. Stark's eyebrows hit his hairline.

One of the gunman came around to the side of the carriage and called through the window flap, "This is a hold up. Give us your valuables and maybe we won't kill you."

Clint closed his eyes and listened to the location of his voice, which was fairly reliably the location of a man's head. He made a motion for the rest of them to duck, just in case everyone started panic shooting. He pulled the hammer back on his Colt and fired sight unseen before the bandit could react to the sound.

There was a thud as the man hit the ground outside the carriage. They heard shouts and footsteps. Rogers had unholstered his piece and swung out the opposite door. He went up and fired and there was a louder thud as the man on the roof fell. That left them three, at least two of whom were on the other side of Clint's door.

He watched Rogers put a foot on the siderail and start scooting around the back, not dropping to the ground where the others could spot him. Clint put another bullet through the door to hold their attention. Sure enough, they came running. People were idiots. He slid the barrel of his pistol through the flap and squinted so he could see through the tiny crack. They shot wildly into the coach, making the middle aged couple scream. Stark shoved them both onto the floor of the coach. Clint shot one bandit, then the other, right between the eyes. 

Now he had exactly one bullet left.

It was hard, with the older couple panting in fear, but he did his best to listen. He heard the creak of Rogers moving around the coach, the roar of thunder in the distance. The restless shift of the horses' hooves. He could not hear the last bandit. Finally, even the creaking of Rogers stopped and it was just the weather and the horses and civilians. Tension stretched out, making his skin feel tight.

 Finally, he decided it was worth the risk to get a better look and nudged the door open. When he did so, he saw a flash of movement and brought his gun up, but a crack of another's shot split the air before he could level it.

The fifth bandit dropped to the ground and Rogers hopped off the side of the carriage, gun smoking and steaming in the rain.

He pulled the door open. "All clear."

"You're a _Marshal_?" Stark demanded.

Rogers tipped his hat. "At your service, Mr. Stark."

He shook his head. "We should get the bodies off the road."

"Yeah," Clint said. "And then one of us has to drive." He climbed out of the coach and into the rain. The shotgun was dead, but the driver was not. Four of the bandits were, the fifth wasn't far off, and the wound was clearly mortal. 

"You're one hell of a shot," Rogers said from behind him.

"That's what I do," he replied. Everybody had a talent, and his seemed to be shooting people. The Union Army had made use of it, but all that had seemed available afterwards was crime. Not that he was going to discuss that with a marshal.

"Is driving a coach and six horses also something you do?"

"Nope. You?"

"I'm from New York City," he said, as if that explained it all.

"I can do it," Stark said, climbing out of the carriage. "And I am _also_ from New York City, by the way."

"I thought you were from Massachusetts?" Rogers asked.

"Nope. I was at Harvard when they formed the regiment." He climbed up on the box and untied the reigns. It was a miracle those horses hadn't bolted with all the gunfire.

Clint and Rogers were dragging the bandits to the side of the road, leaving long furrows in the mud. "You left school to go to war?"

"Seemed like the right thing to do." Clint wondered how much he regretted that while sitting in Andersonville.

 Stark was using his handkerchief and a length of rope to tie off the driver's wound. When that was done he and Rogers got the semi-conscious man down into the carriage to get him out of the rain and give Stark room to sit. "Anyone wanna hang off the side and play shotgun?" Stark asked, gathering up the reins.

"I'll do it," Clint said. The other passengers would probably prefer the company of a marshal anyway.

And that was how they rode into town, with him dangling off the side, shotgun cradled in his arm, and Stark doing an admirable job of controlling the horses. Clint pointed him towards the saloon and he hopped down, opening the door for Rogers and the couple just as people started gathering in the doorway of the building.


	2. The Sundowners

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The reaction to this story delights us both. Gonna try to do a MWF pattern and switch _As Much As Nothing_ to Tuesday/Thursday.

"Stage is here!" Darcy crashed into Nat's office at the back of the saloon. The storm made the crowds light, so she'd left one of the girls watching the bar and went in the back to do a little accounting. She barely had time to look up before words began spilling out of the girl's mouth. "They just pulled up and something _bad_ happened. Cal got shot and one of the passengers is driving. They're unloading out front. Should I send for Doc?"

"Shit," Nat bit out, getting to her feet. Why could nothing ever be simple in her life? She glanced at the clock. If he'd fallen asleep promptly Doc might have gotten a full three hours. "Yeah, you'd better. And send someone upstairs to make sure there's a few empty, clean beds." She paused and noticed Darcy’s hands twisting together and the slightly off way she was breathing. Then it hit her. “Cal got hit?”

Darcy nodded frantically. Cal was one of her regulars and a favorite. Nat was pretty sure she was more than half in love with him. “Are you all right to go get Doc?”

She nodded again. “I’m the fastest. Other than Syn.”

That was true. And worry would get Doc up quicker. “Go and come right back. Be careful.” She ran off towards the back door almost before Nat had finished speaking.

She cut through the kitchen to reach the barroom and ran into her second-in-command, Syn, coming in. “Oh good, Darcy found you.”

“She’s run to get Banner,” Nat explained. “How are the rest of the passengers?

"It's four men and a woman," Syn said. "Three of them young, good looking. The other two are a couple, look pretty shaken up by the whole mess.."

"I'll see what I can do to calm them down," she said, heading out to the front of the building. 

Two men in cowboy hats, leather dusters, and gun belts were carrying Cal in through the front door. His denims were pretty well soaked in blood but she could see he was breathing, and someone had tied off the wound to stem the bleeding. "How bad is it?" she asked. "We sent for the doc."

"Bullet didn't go through," one of them said. He hastily snatched his hat off and gave a polite, earnest smile. "Kept pressure on it, bleeding mostly stopped, but bullet's got to come out or it will go septic."

The other man, who hadn't take his hat off, only said, "Natasha."

She froze, right in the middle of figuring out the best place to lay Cal down and who had the constitution to help Doc Banner if he needed it. It all went right out of her head as she turned slowly to look at the other man. "Clint?"

He smiled, just a little. "Hello."

A third man came through the front door. "Hey! Where are your stables? I have six exhausted horses that are not enjoying the storm."

That was a good question. That was a question she should probably answer. But words were not coming out of her mouth, no matter how hard she tried. She just kept staring at Clint.

"We don't have a closed stable," said Syn in a calm voice, smoothly taking over for her. That was good. Syn had a head on her shoulders. "Cal uses the empty blacksmith's shop if he spends the night. There's a small paddock out back. I can show you where it is."

"You don't have a blacksmith?" the man demanded, sounding very put out considering he'd just been a passenger.

"He died," Nat and Syn said in unison.

"Of what?" asked the other man in leather, the one who had taken his hat off.

"Acute lead poisoning," Syn told him, making a little gun with her fingers and shooting it in the general direction of the wall.

"You're a stage stop! No blacksmith, no stables. Do you have a telegraph or will we need to use smoke signals?"

"Stark!" Clint barked. "Not now. The building should be at the end of the street."

The man—Stark, apparently—held up his hands in surrender. Syn stepped past Nat and walked out with him to show him the blacksmith's.

The blast of wet, stormy air shocked Nat back to life and she shook her head. "Let's get Cal in the back room. Doc won't want to work on him out here." She would deal with the immediate problem and figure out Clint later.

They carried him where she indicated, and she cleared the table for them to lay him on. "Pardon my manners, ma'am," the other man said. "I'm Marshal Rogers."

"Natasha Romanova," she replied, shaking his hand. "I own this saloon."

"Pleasure to make your acquaintance," he said. "It's a lovely establishment."

She didn't miss the very quiet, annoyed noise Clint made. Before she could turn to talk to him Doc Banner came in with Amanda on his heels. Syn and Darcy crowded into the room behind them. Doc took one look at Cal and set his bag down next to his head. "Anyone who doesn't want to be a surgical assistant vacate this room."

"I can stay if I'm of use," Rogers said. "Seen more than my share of blood and gore on the battlefield."

"Might need somebody to hold him down if he wakes up," Amanda said.

"Right," Doc replied. "Out, the rest of you. Boiling water, alcohol and all the clean rags you have."

Syn volunteered to get the supplies, recruiting Darcy to help so the girl would have something to do other than pace and fret. Nat herded the others out and realized she was alone with Clint. He was staring at her, so she turned to look at him. "What the hell are you doing here?"

"You wrote me a letter about how the town had gone to hell and Fury had been murdered and left you the saloon and you were standing your ground and expected me _not_ to come?"

Because no one ever came back. Because the world dropped off at the edge of town and people forgot about everyone they left behind. He'd just be offended if she said that, though. So she reached out and wrapped her arms around his neck. He held her, and she accidentally knocked his hat off, but he didn't seem to care. He pressed his face into the curve where her neck met her shoulder. She stroked his hair, holding him tightly. God, she had missed him. She'd been sure she'd never see him again. And now, here he was, alive and well and in her arms.

"I missed you," she whispered.

"I missed you, too," he mumbled into her skin, and she felt his arms tighten.

"Where have you been? Why were you gone so long?"

"I was at war," he replied after a moment. "And then I was just. . .lost."

Her breath hitched and she tightened her arms around him. "Oh, honey."

After a moment he sighed, and straightened. "We should see to the other passengers. Everyone is going to need somewhere to sleep."

She nodded and scrubbed her hands over her face. "Right. We have beds. We usually house coach passengers here."

"Good. Let's get everyone settled, and we'll deal with the rest in the morning."

And that's what she did. The Koenigs were the middle aged couple that had been in the coach with the others. They were shaken and scared but Nat turned on the charm and got them settled in a clean room upstairs as far from the client rooms as possible. Rogers was still in with Banner, but she showed Stark to a room and made sure there was an empty one waiting for the marshal when he was ready.

She made her way back downstairs and Clint was sitting at the bar, drinking whiskey he'd apparently helped himself to. "We're going to carry Cal back to Dr. Banner's house, so he can keep a better eye on him overnight."

 Taking the glass from him, she finished it and refilled it. "Sounds like a good idea."

"I feel like I've been awake for days," he said.

In her bedroom assignments, she hadn't cleared one for him. Which, now that she was thinking about it, had been a little presumptuous. "I can find you a bed. . ."

He looked up at her. "We're you intending to have me sleep on the barroom floor?"

She cleared her throat. "Sorry, I assumed- Never mind. We have plenty of rooms."

"Tasha," he said softly. That was a nickname she hadn't heard in a very long time.

God dammit she was not going to cry. She didn't have time to cry. "I don't go to sleep until the early hours," she heard herself saying. "But you're welcome to use my bed. Even if I'm not in it."

He reached out, and touched the back of her hand with two of his fingers, gentle and careful. "You'll be up later?"

She nodded. "Once everyone is out or upstairs."

The door opened and Rogers came out. "We're ready."

Clint backed the rest of his glass and stood, tugging his hat brim down. "Be careful," Nat said. "I'll show you both your rooms when you make it back."

They covered him with blankets before carrying him out. After they were gone, Thor wandered in. Sure, now the strongest man in town shows up. She hoped he was sober. She wasn’t in the mood to deal with a bar fight tonight.

He took his usual seat at the bar and she went down to gauge his sobriety and mood. "You missed all the excitement."

"I heard someone robbed the stage." His voice sounded reasonably clear. 

"Yeah. Cal took one in the leg that managed to miss the artery, he's recovering at Doc's. Leg still attached. There was a marshal as a passenger, he and a couple others saved it." She still wasn't going to serve him until he asked. There was being a good saloon keep and then there was enabling.

"A marshal? Now that's nothing but trouble. The big man won't like that."

That was almost certainly true. "He's probably just passing through," she said, even though she had no idea the man's plans. This wasn't the kind of place marshals stayed for long.

"Can I have a whiskey, or are you saving it for the guests?"

"Since you asked nicely," she said, pouring the drink for him.

"Thank you, Miss Natasha." She had to give Thor credit, when he wasn't drunk and brawling, his manners were excellent. His accent was very genteel, very cultured, and very noticeably southern. She had no idea if he'd fought for the south. In this town of people who vividly remembered Bleeding Kansas and Quantrill's raids, it didn't matter. They heard the accent and assumed. And Thor seemed incapable of ignoring anyone who insulted him.

One night she'd tried to add up all the furniture he'd broken and had had to give up. Fortunately, he usually felt guilty in the morning and would come by to help with clean up. He was skilled with a hammer and occasionally got work as a contractor from people whose broken roofs grew worse than their patriotism was strong. 

She leaned on the bar near him, scanning the crowd. "I am not in the mood to fight tonight," he told her. 

"That's very reassuring," she replied, tone neutral. Mainly because after the evening they'd had she wasn't entirely certain Clint wouldn't just shoot him.

Not long after, Clint and Rogers came back in. "Mr. Stark said he wanted to sleep at the blacksmith's. Apparently, there's a bed there, and it's quiet."

"The old smithy used to sleep there," Nat said, putting glasses in front of them both. "And it will be quiet there."

"He's kind of an odd guy, Stark," Clint said. "Got a bit of Soldier's Heart, I imagine."

Thor looked over and furrowed his brow, obviously confused. "When a person has a bad time in the war and it changes how they act, they call it Soldier's Heart," she explained.

"Like the good doctor?" he asked in that damned accent of his. She hoped he didn't set off Clint or the marshal with that.

"I don't know if it's the war that did that to Doc, but similar, yeah."

"There probably isn't anybody the war didn't scar, one way or the other," Rogers said. "But battle is a beast of its own." He paused a minute, and looked over at Thor. "You fight?"

Thor watched him a moment, and then nodded. Nat quite literally held her breath, not sure if there was about to be a messy fight. That would likely end with Clint shooting people. Then Rogers held his glass towards Thor. "To peace. And no more marching."

"I will drink to that," Thor said softly, solemnly. He clinked his glass to Rogers's, then offered it to Clint. He leaned over and clinked it as well.

There was a moment of silence, and then Clint asked, "So did most of you guys really spend the whole war with single shot muzzle loaders?"

"It was really more of a stick to put a bayonet on," Thor replied. "What did you have?"

"A Sharps and a Henry," Clint replied. He actually smiled, and Nat felt comfortable there wouldn't be a brawl after all.

It seemed to get Rogers's attention. "You have a Henry?"

The smile turned into a grin, the first she'd seen since he'd walked into the door. "I do. Sixteen shot magazine," he said proudly. The next thing she knew, said rifle was disassembled on her bar while he showed the patrons who crowded around its various parts. Guns weren't really her thing, but her customers were clearly excited.

She left them to it, checking in with her girls who hadn't found clients and chatted for a bit. With everything under control in the front she brought some bottles up from the storage room and settled in her office to finish the accounting she'd started earlier. 

A while later, a knock on her door made her look up, to find Clint leaning on her door jamb. "So, where is this mysterious room of yours?"

The last column of numbers refused to add up correctly. It was as good a time for a break as any. "Yes. Sorry. I meant to show it to you earlier." She got to her feet. "Done showing off your toy?"

"I've promised to let some of them shoot it as soon as the weather clears." 

"That's very generous of you," she told him sincerely, joining him at the door. "Come on, I'll show you the room."

He followed her up the stairs, carrying his several gun cases, his bag, and his duster, apparently not wanting to leave anything downstairs overnight. Her room was in the back left corner of the building, near the girls’ rooms and away from street noise. It didn't hold much more than a bed, vanity and wardrobe, but the bed was large and comfortable and it was her oasis away from the chaos of the rest of the house.

She heard him give a small sigh of pleasure at the sight of it. "Thank you," he said quietly.

Impulsively, she leaned up and kissed his cheek. "Make yourself at home."

He put his things down, and she watched him unhook his gun belt and drop it. He put the revolver on the nightstand and peeled out of his clothes. She could see exhaustion in every movement. She really shouldn't stand there and watch.

She decided that as long as he wasn't complaining she'd indulge another minute or two. She'd always enjoyed his body, even when they'd first met and he was far younger, barely out of his awkward, scrawny teens. He was older now, older than when he'd left. War had hardened him, scarred him. What had once been carved from oak was now cool marble. She fisted her hands in her skirt to keep from closing the distance and touching him.

He walked over to her pitcher and basin to wash his face, and then sat on her bed. He looked up at her. "You'll be here later?" he asked quietly.

Not trusting her voice, she nodded. She pulled Fury's pocket watch out of her bodice and checked the time. After midnight already. "Usually by two or three." He'd probably be long asleep by then. He nodded back, and she bid him goodnight, ducking out before she could do something silly like leap on him.

The rest of the night dragged on. A few men went upstairs with girls. The rest finished their drinks and headed home, walking or staggering. The marshal, Rogers, nursed his drink at the bar until most of the crowd had thinned out. She had the distinct impression he was keeping an eye on her. Thor left after only five or six drinks, which for him was barely tipsy. He paid his tab with a polite tip of his hat and sauntered out in a remarkably good mood. Talking with Clint seemed to have cheered him.

At two twenty the last client staggered upstairs with Daisy and Nat and the remaining girls locked the doors, piled the used glasses into the wash bucket and turned down the lamps, calling it a night. Darcy had been mysteriously absent tonight and Nat was pretty sure she was helping Doc with any vigil he was keeping on Cal. She bade the rest of them goodnight, locked the money in the safe and made her way up to her room, bone weary and feeling oddly old.

Even though she expected it, seeing Clint sprawled out in her bed startled her just a bit. Like maybe she'd conjured his presence in her head. But he was still here, as real as ever. She watched his chest rise and fall a few times, before turning away to undress. Her hair pins went in a little glass dish on her vanity, the pocket watch right next to it. She sat on the vanity stool to remove her boots and stayed seated to unbutton her bodice before standing to tug the dress off.

It was then that she realized he was awake - or at least, half awake, watching her through heavy lidded eyes. He didn't say anything, but held her gaze while she took off her petticoats and corset. When she was down to her shift he lifted up the blankets in invitation. Feeling oddly nervous, she crossed the room and slid under the blankets, into the little pocket of warmth made by his body. He tucked the blankets around them, and then slid his arm around her waist. He sighed contentedly and nuzzled her hair.

He felt as hard as he looked, but he smelled exactly as she remembered. She cuddled close, letting an arm sling over his waist to hold her to him. "I dreamed about this," he whispered, sleep in his voice.

"Laying with me?" she asked softly.

"Mmhm. During the war."

She pressed a kiss against his collar bone. "I'm here."

His arms tightened, like he was drowning and she was keeping him afloat. "Stay."

"All night," she promised. He nodded in approval, and she felt him relax. She kissed him again and closed her eyes, feeling sleep tug at her. She drifted off to the sound of his steady breathing.


	3. A Fistful of Dollars

The rooms above the blacksmith's shop looked like they had been untouched since the previous occupant "vacated". Odd that no one had looted it, especially in a frontier town with no law enforcement.

It was a little awkward being up there, but Tony didn't sleep much, so when exhaustion finally caught him, he had a tendency to drop anywhere. The comfortable bed was a nice change, and the privacy was much better than the crowded saloon. 

In the morning, he was up just as the sky stared to tint gray. He went back downstairs to inspect the shop itself. It was well equipped, and as untouched as the upstairs. The stack of wood by the forge was dry and in good shape. He stared at it for a long moment, before beginning to build a fire. At least two of those horses needed shoes.

He'd finished the first horse and was working on the second when he realized he'd drawn a crowd. Not a huge one, but three or four men, mostly older than him, watching him work. He appreciated that they hadn't bothered him while he was slinging red hot metal around, but the silent audience was a little creepy.

"You opening up the smithy?" one asked when he saw Tony make eye contact.

He looked around. One could not deny reality. "Temporarily. Apparently."

There was a pause and the men exchanged glances. "You taking orders?" Tony had no idea if that was the same man or a different one. It was possible they all spoke as a hive mind in this town. But that was probably his imagination getting the better of him.

He eyed them. "Depends. Is someone going to shoot me if I do?"

This actually caused them to put their heads together for a conference, which was less than reassuring. That was a question one preferred to have an easy answer. Finally, the spokesperson answered. "Not if you pay the tax. And we'll chip in a bit extra on our orders to see you have the scratch."

"Tax to who?"

"Mr. Pierce." He hooked a thumb over his shoulder, towards the far end of town. "He charges a protection tax on all the businesses here."

He sighed. "Lovely. I travel halfway across the country to end up in Five Points." The were giving him quizzical looks. "It's a very bad neighborhood in New York City."

"Well, the town itself ain't so bad," one of them hastened to reassure him. "People tend to look out for each other."

"It's Mr. Pierce you need the protection from," one added, to the horrified looks of his compatriots. "'Course you didn't hear that from me."

"Right. Okay. Well, I don't know how long I'll be here, but I like keeping busy. Make a list on the slate on the wall over there."

They all nodded and went over to the slate. Tony went back to his hammering and the next time he looked up he was alone.  
 When he finished with the second horse he banked the fire and went to read the order list. Nails. Lots of nails. Couple horse shoes. Some tools and one set of door latches and hinges. There were last names scrawled next to the orders and a little pile of coins on the bench below, for materials and taxes, he supposed.

"Setting up shop?" asked a voice from behind him. He turned to see Marshal Rogers.

He shrugged. "The horses needed shoes. It snowballed from there."

"No one else at the saloon was awake, so I went for a walk. Stopped by the doctor's, the driver is doing all right. Hasn't gone septic."

"Good to hear. He's a lucky sonovabitch. Anybody else had been in that carriage he'd have died out on the road there."

"Still might have died. Banner's not some barely educated frontier doctor. Getting that bullet out took some skill."

Tony went back to the work station and started sorting out the mess of tools and materials, making himself a mental checklist. "This is a weird ass town, Marshal."

"Yeah, I did notice that. Doc told me I should consider getting out of here as soon as possible."

"You gonna take his advice?" He glanced over at him and saw the answer. "Of course not. You got your friend to find."

"I do. And Barton clearly has his woman. But it's probably advice you should heed."

That was absolutely right. Of course, with the coach driver laid up, it'd be a while before another one came along. And it wasn't like he had had any destination in mind when he'd set out. He sure as hell wasn't headed back east and this wasn't much different than any other frontier town. Plus a mysterious tyrant running a protection racket, of course. And the room upstairs was pretty cozy. 

Besides, if Barton and the Marshal had any hope of doing whatever they were planning on doing, chances are they'd need a black smith to help them out.

He gave a vague gesture towards the slate board. He was pretty sure one word got out it'd be a lot more crowded. "Well. I have all these orders. . ."

"Right." Rogers shook his head and shrugged. "I'll telegraph the stage company as soon as the telegraph opens. Assuming the telegrapher hasn't been run off or shot, of course."

"I would take nothing for granted," Tony said. "I'm going to finish organizing and wander a bit. Meet you at the saloon later?" Keeping nice with the only lawman in town was probably in his best interest for now.

Rogers tipped his hat, and left the shop.

Tony did pretty much as he'd said, bringing some kind of order to the blacksmithing bench before going for a walk to find out if anywhere but the saloon served food. A general store would do him some good, too, if he was planning to stay. And he should retrieve his luggage at some point.

A walk up the main street revealed a few other shuttered businesses, perhaps having fallen to the same fate as the blacksmith. There was a general store, however. They probably sold some sort of food. There were a few people inside, and they all looked at him with suspicion. The woman behind the counter looked rather stern, and was eyeing him with the calculated appraisal of a lawman. "Can I help you?" she asked.

He supposed he shouldn't expect friendliness in a town run by a dictator. "I'm looking for something to eat and directions to the telegraph office."

"We sell dry goods, and canned goods. If you don't know how to cook, try the saloon. Telegraph's in the Post Office across the street. And who are you?"

"Tony Stark, I came in on the stage last night." He debated a moment, then added, "I'll be doing some black smithing while waiting on the next one."

That got her attention. "My horse needs shoes like nobody's business."

At this rate he was going to die in this town. Still, he said, "I have an order list at the smithy. On a slate. What's your name? I'll add it on."

"Hill," she said. "Mrs." She paused, then asked, "Would you take payment in store credit?"

He glanced around thoughtfully. Well, if he was going to be staying in town he was going to need supplies of some sort. "I'm sure we can come to some sort of arrangement, ma'am."

She eyed him a moment. "I have some pie. If that would inspire you to move me to a higher position on the list."

Praise Jesus but he loved bargaining. "I'm a firm believer in the sacred and timeless power of bribery," he told her solemnly. "What flavor pie?"

"Blackberry. Interested?"

"Mrs. Hill, I do believe a spot has opened up at the top of my list."

She nodded, and actually smiled. "Have a seat."

He took off his hat and did just that, stretching his legs out carefully as he did so. The morning hunched over the anvil had stiffened him up. Maybe he'd figure out what the redhead at the saloon needed smithed in return for a hot bath later. She didn't even need to throw in a girl.

*

Waking up in a warm, comfortable bed, with a woman tucked up against him was so unusual an experience for Clint that he was momentarily disoriented. Then, for another moment, time unwound, erasing the war and everything that had come with it, taking him back to the last time he'd woken up with Natasha beside him. 

She stirred a little, as if sensing he was awake, and burrowed closer to him. He couldn't help but smile a little. She was always cold, her hands, her feet, and would use him as her own personal bedwarmer. He'd teased her that she'd sleep under him like he was a blanket if it wouldn't smother her. Some things, at least, hadn't changed. 

He pulled her closer, and rubbed her back. "Morning."

He felt her sigh as much as heard it. "Mmm. You're really here. It wasn't a dream."

"So it would seem."

She shifted, tipping her head back so he could see her face and her, his. "Did you sleep well?"

He smiled, realizing that for the first time in a long time, he hadn't had any nightmares. "Better than I expected."

"Good," she murmured, then she tugged herself closer and kissed him. He hadn't kissed her last night, because he hadn't been sure he'd be welcome. Because he didn't want her to think he had expectations. But God, did he want her. 

There was nothing shy or uncertain about the kiss. She wrapped a leg over his, pressing herself fully against him, so every part of her was touching him. He reached down to stroke her thigh, and then slid his hand upwards, pushing her shift up and baring her skin. She sighed softly, fingers tightening in his hair. Her skin was as soft and supple as he remembered it to be. 

He worked the shift high enough he could cup one of her breasts in his hand. He remembered the first time he'd touched her, thinking she had the most magnificent breasts he'd ever seen. Turned out to be completely true—there had never been another like her. She arched into his touch, then leaned away to tug her shift up and off, leaving her in just her drawers. Cuddling back against him, she let her own hands wander over him, making a sound of pleasure deep in her throat. It just about killed him, and he knew there was no way this could happen slowly. Not after all this time. He tugged on the drawstring on her drawers and rolled her under him.

He heard her murmur his name, even as he hands slid into the waist of his drawers and shoved them down. Her legs spread, cradling his hips between her thighs, so he fit perfectly against her wet heat. He pulled one of her legs up higher as he pushed into her. She gasped against his mouth, and then it turned into a small moan. The sound, the way she clutched at him, was as erotic as the feel of her around him.

It was all so familiar. The feel of her, the little sounds she made. The taste of her kiss. His body remembered her well, slipping into an easy rhythm that soon had her arching beneath him. He squeezed the thigh he still held, tugging it higher and then she was growing hot around him, muscles tightening in a clench. He let himself get lost in her, in the strange mix of past and present that was happening right now. She broke the kiss so she could gasp and cry and beg him for things, and he could feel her body trembling on the edge. "God, I missed you," he whispered.

"Clint," she whispered. "Clint. _Clint_." Her nails dug into his back and her legs tightened. Then she was coming, body spasming around him as she rode it out. He stayed as long as he could, as long as he dared, before he had to pull out and spill on the sheets.

He heard her laugh a little before she kissed him, holding him close. "Thank you," she murmured.

After a moment he managed to lift his head. "Why are you thanking me?"

"For coming back. For the orgasm. For remembering to pull out. All of the above. take your pick."

He grinned, and brushed hair off her damp forehead. "And here I was going to apologize for the rushed nature of that."

She turned her face to kiss his wrist. "I assure you I enjoyed it thoroughly."

"Good," he murmured. He liked how happy she looked. Like some of the the stress and tension she'd been carrying had melted away. He knew it was temporary, but it was nice to see just the same.  
 They did an awkward little shuffle to one side of the bed to escape the wet spot and she curled up in his arms again head on his shoulder. "I missed you, too," she said when they were comfortable again. 

He stroked his hand down her back, over her bare skin. "I want to close my eyes and pretend all those years never happened."

She sighed. "It's a nice dream. They haven't been the best of years."

"We could just stay up here in this room and say to hell with the world."

"I think, eventually, the world would find us. Plus, we need to eat."

He made a grumbling noise and pulled her closer. "Food can wait."

She gave a laugh that was almost a giggle. "If I recall, you're rather unlivable when hungry. It can't wait that long."

"Yes, but I am nowhere near done with you, yet," he said.

Another giggle. "Well, I'm not going anywhere."

"Good." He dipped his head, pressing a kiss into her shoulder. "Now that we've gotten the desperation out of the way. I remember exactly how you like it." He kissed her mouth. "Exactly what makes you scream." Once, long ago, he'd gotten a round of applause from the other girls on his way out the door in the morning. Which had been both mortifying and made him kind of proud. It must take a lot for sex noises to impress a group of whores.

Nat's eyes lit up and she wove her fingers into his hair again. "Yes, well. I remember all the things that drove you, mad, too. If I recall correctly, I even got you to groan a few times." She had always teased him for being silent as the tomb in bed.

"See?" he asked with grin. "Who needs breakfast?"  "Why Mr. Barton, is that a challenge?"

*

The telegraph/post office was closed when Steve went there, with no sign of when it might be open. The saloon had been dead quiet when he let himself out, though he supposed its denizens weren't exactly early risers. The barber shop three doors down from the post office was open, though. He rubbed his jaw. A shave would do him good.

There was a dark-skinned man behind the chair stropping a razor. He looked up when Steve walked in, and then gave him an appraising look. "You must be one of the newcomers. The lawman, I'd venture." 

Steve glanced down at himself. "That obvious?"

"Well, I heard about the one man opening the smithy—and you can hear the clanging from the street. I know what Clint Barton looks like. So unless you're a really well disguised middle-aged portly man from Cincinnati, you must be the Marshal."

He touched his hat brim. "Steve Rogers. At your service."

"Sam Wilson. You need a shave." It was a statement, not a question.

“S'why I came in." Wilson gestured to the second chair on the left and Steve took off his hat, sauntering over to the chair and sitting.

Wilson put the drape over his clothing and tucked a towel around his neck. Then he reclined the chair. "Some percentage of the stage passengers come in here, take a look at me, and go right back out. Which is unfortunate for them, as I am the only barber."

"Old prejudice dies hard." Steve could list at least a dozen men he'd served with who probably wouldn't let a black man near his throat with a razor. Since cut throats didn't seem to be one of the town's numerous problems, he figured he could risk it. 

He shrugged. "I cut Thor and Loki's hair, and their family owned a slave plantation. Money still spends just fine." He put a hot towel over Steve's face. "We've got enough trouble in this town all on its own."

Steve remembered Thor from the night before, he assumed Loki was a relative of his. "I've heard of some of that," was all he said, voice muffled with the towel.

"Stick around, you'll hear plenty."

Barber was the best place in a small town for gossip. "I'm actually looking for someone. Old friend of mine. Hell of a shot, missing his left arm. I hear he's been seen around here."

Wilson took the towel off his face. "What kind of lawman are you that you'd be friends with _that_ man?"

Steve sighed. _Oh Bucky, what have you gotten yourself into?_ "We grew up together. He was a different man before the war. But battle and the arm changed him. One day he just up and left his life, headed out west. No goodbyes, no letters."

"He's a gunslinger. Thor used to knock heads for Pierce. It was unpleasant, but nobody died. Then he brought in. . . you know, I don't know his name. Everybody calls him The Soldier. Took the level of violence right up. Like the man missed the '50's when everybody was killing each other over free state vs. slave state. Now you cross Pierce, you get shot." Wilson began soaping Steve's face with a brush. "Rumor among my early morning crowd is Barton came back to kill him." 

Barton hadn't mentioned anything about that, just trying to talk his woman into leaving. Of course, it was possible he didn't mention that because he knew Steve was the assassin's friend. "His name is James Barnes," was all he said.

Wilson turned away, and returned with his razor. "Whatever his name is, somebody needs to stop him."

"I'm hoping to talk some sense into him," he offered. He was pretty sure that wasn't what he meant though.

"He seems beyond sense, if you ask me me."

Steve felt a spike of stubbornness. "Well, I have to try."

Wilson shrugged, and went back to shaving Steve's face. After a few moments of silence, he said, "Be careful crossing Pierce."

"Who is this guy? Everyone talks about him like he's the devil himself."

"He's the mayor, the banker, and the largest local landowner. He controls the post office, the telegraph, and the newspaper, such that it is. Most importantly, he owns the water. So he owns the town and everyone in it, to a certain degree. Stand up to him, and you get killed. Your hair could use a trim," he added.

"Go ahead," he said, distracted. There was a lot of corruption in the west. Lawlessness. Hell, for half the people coming out that was a draw. But there was the usual robbers and con men and then there was _this_. He didn't blame Barton for wanting to get his woman out of the mess. But it wasn't something he could turn away from.

"Sounds like a man someone should do something about," he mused out loud.

Wilson brought out the scissors and clipped away. "Can't disagree with that. Last man who tried got killed, though."

"That was the old saloon keeper? Fury?"

"That's the one. They got on in the early days. Not so much later, particularly after your friend showed up. Pierce ran the preacher out, took over all communications, started collecting these punitive tithes—and killing people who didn't pay. Fury declared he'd been owned once and wasn't interested in a repeat. Began rallying help. Got gunned down in the street right out there."

"By the Soldier, I assume?"

"The very same."

Steve stifled another sigh. It wasn't the Bucky he knew. But the war had been hard on him and maybe life only made sense when he was taking orders. He'd heard of stranger reactions to violence. "Why doesn't everyone just leave?"

"A lot of people have. But for many of us. . . this is home."

"That is a hard thing to let go of when you find it," he admitted.

Wilson dusted off Steve's shoulders with a brush, and pulled off the drape with a flourish. "There you are."

"Thank you very much, Mr. Wilson." Steve dug in his pockets and pulled out some coin.

"Thank you, Marshal. Good luck."

"Thanks." Steve shoved his hat back on his head and ran a hand over his jaw and nodded. "Hell of a barber, Mr. Wilson."

"You come back anytime," he replied with a grin.

"I will surely do that." He touched his hat brim and strolled out onto the board walk again. The door to the post office hung open and he pondered going over now. 'Course now that he knew it was run by Pierce he could assume anything he sent would be reported back to the man immediately.

Well. Someone ought to at least inform the Stage company of the attempted robbery, the injured driver, and the fact the they had passengers stranded in this town. Nothing suspicious about a Marshal doing that. Plus he'd get to meet someone under Pierce's thumb. Never too early to get intel on your enemy.

Decided, he headed down the walk to the post office. He rapped on the door jamb as he entered. Sitting at the desk was a lean, pale man with a shock of black hair and cool blue eyes. The man gave him a look up and down and said in a smooth southern drawl, "You must be the marshal that came in on the stage."

"I am," he said evenly. "Steve Rogers. I need to send a telegram."

"Of course you do. Where is the mail?"

"Mail?"

The man, who still had not introduced himself, sighed expansively. "Yes. The mail. It comes on the stage. The driver usually drops it round. This _is_ the post office. Where is the mail?"

Steve paused a moment, going over the events of the night before. "Probably in the office at the saloon. That's where we unloaded everything. If it's not there then maybe the blacksmith."

He sighed heavily and looked at the ceiling. "Are you implying that I should go search for it?"

"You are the post master, aren't you? Sounds like something that would be your responsibility."

"Apparently." He came around the desk and made a shooing motion with his hand. "Office is closed."

Steve held his gaze as he took two steps back, out of the office. "Didn't catch your name, Post Master."

He followed him out, locking the door. Then he sketched a bow. "Loki Odinsson."

Wilson had mentioned a Loki. Steve hadn't caught Thor's last name the night before, but he took a shot in the dark. The accents were damn near the same, as were the manners. "Any relation to Thor?"

Loki heaved a long, loud sigh, turning in the direction of the saloon. "The man calls himself my brother."

Interesting. They seemed to be from elsewhere, and didn't get along. And yet, they were both here. "When will you be open again?"

The negligent shrug was obvious even from the back. "When I'm dong sorting through the mail, I suppose." Then he strolled away, leaving Steve to stare at his retreating back.

Right. Probably better to give him time to deal with the mail and the saloon. On the other hand, if there was trouble he'd be useful to have around. He followed along at a slower pace.


	4. Support Your Local Lawman

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year everyone.

Someone was banging on Nat's door. She was drifting in the afterglow, only half aware of the sound. But the world was intruding.

Clint pressed a kiss into the back of her neck. "Ignore it," he whispered.

The knock repeated. "I know you're awake." It was Syn. "I even waited until the chandelier stopped swinging."

"That was thoughtful of her," she murmured. "What is it?" she added, louder.

"People are downstairs. Loki's looking for the mail. Stark wants a bath. The Koenigs are hungry and we're out of bread. It's almost lunch. Also, Darcy had five in the betting pool and I don't want to have to pay her."

Nat thumped her head against her pillow a moment, then sighed. "Get Stark his bath, the mail is in my office. I'll be down in ten minutes."

"Stark wants to know if you need anything smithed in return for the bath."

She sat up, running her hands through her hair. "I'm sure I can think of something. Or we can start him a tab." She heard Syn's footsteps retreat. Behind her she could feel Clint shaking with silent laughter.

Pausing to give him a swat, she climbed out of bed. "You see, a saloon keep's life isn't all fun and games."

"I feel I should buy Darcy a drink for her faith in my stamina."

"I imagine that would take the sting out of her owing Syn money." She tipped her head back. "I should see if I can get a cut of that."

He nibbled her ear. "You should."

She aimed another swat at him. "Stop that. I have to go to work."

"You did say ten minutes."

"I don't want to be rushed." She leaned over to kiss him. "And I like Syn better than Darcy," she added in a whisper, climbing off the bed to get dressed.

He stretched out on his back, tucking his hands behind his head and watching her. When she gave him a look, he said, "Hey, I don't have any work to do."

Shaking her head, she tugged on fresh drawers and shift, then a corset and practical dress, before sitting down to pin up her hair. "Going to spend the day in bed?"

He sighed. "No, I suppose not. It's not any fun without you."

"We can recommence our activities tonight," she offered.

"I hope so," he said, and finally got up to get dressed himself. She watched him in the mirror for a moment, before standing up. Muscles that had been little-used protested, but it was the most delightful form of soreness.

She caught him around the waist when he was still shirtless and gave him a deep kiss. "Thank you for a lovely morning."

That got her a grin. "Best I've had in a very long time."

"Me too." She kissed his cheek. "I'll see you downstairs." He nodded, and returned to dressing. She lingered a moment, until he put his shirt on, tucked it in, and pulled the suspenders over his shoulders one by one. Then she ducked out into the hall to go deal with her patrons.

The barroom was downright crowded for the middle of the day. She didn't see Stark, so assumed he had found his way to a bath. Loki was waiting at the bar looking irritated and bored as only he could. The marshal was leaning on the other end of the bar, feigning nonchalance but clearly watching the other man. The Koenigs were at a table looking like they wished they'd never left wherever they'd come from. And Syn was leaning on Nat's office door surveying the rest. 

"Why didn't you get him the mail?" Nat hissed when she reached the other woman.

"I do not have the keys to your office," she told her calmly.

Nat cursed and dug them out of her pocket, opening the door. "Go deal with the Koenigs. They can eat lunch without bread and like it."

"Aye, aye, cap," Syn muttered, pushing off the door to go do her bidding.

She opened her office, and went in to get the mail bag labeled Triskellion. She carried it back out to find Loki had come around the bar to follow her. "So kind of you to grace us with your presence," he drawled.

This from the man who strolled into the post office whenever he damn well felt like it. "I don't work on your schedule," she told him, tossing the mailbag at him. He leaned back and it landed at his feet with a satisfying thump.

"Of course not," he said, scooping up the bag. "Whores never get up before noon."

She loved when men tried to insult her with her profession. As if she was unaware of it. "Based on the hours at the telegraph office, neither do bastards," she said sweetly.

His smile dropped and his face grew dark. "You should mind your mouth."

Nat didn't flinch. "This is my place, Odinsson. Mind yours."

"It's only yours because you're allowed to have it. Or do you not recall the fate of its previous proprietor."

She crossed her arms and said with more confidence than she had, "You can't kill me. The girls would scatter and you'd be without a whorehouse. And you can sneer at us all you like but Pierce knows how fast he'd lose people if we weren't up and running. So you take your mail and get your ass out of my building."

He smiled again, but it wasn't a kind smile. "Aw, now. Who said anything about killing you? Not everything that hurts is fatal."

The sound of a rifle bolt being pulled echoed in the hall. She looked up and Loki turned—Clint was at the top of the stairwell. "This will definitely be fatal," he called down conversationally.

Loki, ever seeking the last word, replied. "You won't shoot me from up there, you're just as likely to hit her—"

He didn't even finish the sentence when Clint fired, striking the drawstring of the mailbag and causing to to fall. The bullet buried in the doorframe. Loki looked at the mailbag on the floor, then back up at Clint. Out in the saloon the sudden silence was deafening. "I got fifteen shots left."

Nat couldn't be sure, but she was fairly certain Loki actually paled a bit. "You can get out of my building now," she repeated calmly. "And I don't know that I want to see you here again without Thor."

Loki's lip curled into a snarl, but he picked up the mailbag and left. Nat went back into the main room. The Koenigs seemed to have ignored the goings on, but Marshal Rogers was eyeing the main door cautiously and Syn was staring at Clint like she wanted to scale him. Nat knew the other woman wouldn't step on her toes, so she decided to take that as a compliment rather than get jealous. "Nice shooting, honey."

"It's what I do," he replied. "Is there coffee?"

"Syn?" she asked, making the other woman jump.

"Yeah," Syn said. "I'll bring a cup." She gave herself a little shake and headed into the kitchen.

"Sorry if I stirred up trouble," Clint said.

"No. He's always like that. If the gunslinger is Pierce's right hand Loki is his left. Just enough power to be be full of him but not enough to act autonomously. He'll lick his wounds and be slinking back in a day or two."

"So he does that a lot?"

"Threaten me? Almost daily. If we have a conversation without some sort of vague reference to dire consequences I feel all out of sorts."

"Have you considered kicking him in the nuts?"

She shrugged. "I figured it was how he flirted."

Syn came out and handed him a mug off coffee. "Thanks. And if it is, then I feel I've adequately staked my territory this morning."

Nat leaned over and kissed his cheek. "In several ways."

Rogers wandered over. "Still haven't been able to send a telegram. Mr. Odinsson was angry about not being brought the mail, so he shut the door in my face."

"He's a five year old. Let him cool down a bit and he'll open the office again." She smiled. "Can I get you a meal, Marshal?"

"Thank you, ma'am. Whatever you've got extra of."

"I'll get it," Syn offered. "Continue being all lovebird with him. I'm hoping next pigs’ll fly and gold will rain from the sky."

She'd be embarrassed, but they were holding hands over the bar. She hadn't even really noticed that until just this moment. She watched Syn head back to the kitchen, then looked back at Clint. "You're going to make a serious dent in my cold, no nonsense reputation."

He grinned at her. Rogers shook his head. "You've picked a terrible place for a romantic vacation, I'll say that."

"Well, we've never had the typical idea of romance. Clint likes rescuing me."

Rogers glanced over his shoulder at the crowd, and then lowered his voice. "You know your town is. . . really quite fucked up."

"I was not exaggerating when I wrote him my letter, " she replied. She studied him a moment, noticed the faint dusting of scruff he'd had the night before was gone. "You met Sam Wilson, I see."

"I did. He's a quite useful source of information."

"He's been my information source for ages. Fury's before me. Everyone in town sees him."

Syn brought Rogers a bowl of stew. He thanked her and dug in. After a moment he said, "I gather this Pierce character fancies himself above the law."

Nat exchanged glances with Syn. "He pretty much is the law," she said. 

"In the way a drunk with a belt is the law to his frightened children," Syn added.

"I don't know about you," he said, glancing over at Clint. "But I didn't fight a war so people could make their own little tyrannical kingdoms on American soil."

"I'll drink to that."

"If only we had some big strong, law abiding men to help us right this horrible wrong," Syn said.

Nat shifted, leaning on the bar to look at her. "Subtle."

"We passed subtlety a long time ago. Now I just want to shoot the man."

"I'll shoot him," Clint said immediately. "I can hit a target from 1,000 yards or so."

Rogers looked at him. "Bullshit." Clint just looked at him and raised both eyebrows. "Fine. But increasing the murder count isn't the answer to this, and you—" he pointed at Syn— "really know how to ruin a motivational speech."

"I have many gifts," she informed him. "Was that you telling me to shut up?"

"Yes," he replied. He turned his attention back to Clint. "You in?"

"In _what_?"

"I need a deputy."

Clint rubbed the back of his neck. "I think you need many, many deputies."

"Could be, but I gotta start somewhere. And seems like you have a vested interest in seeing this sorted."

He met Nat's eyes. "Suppose I do."

She offered him a brilliant smile. "Lawmen get a discount."

Syn pointed at Nat and Clint but looked at Rogers. "That's how you do a motivational speech."

Clint held Nat’s gaze for a moment, studying her face. He was looking for—or confirming—her agreement. It could make things messier for her. "All right," he said quietly. "I'm in."

With a surprised noise of glee she leaned over the bar and hugged him around the neck. That drew the very interested attention of a number of patrons, but she didn't care. She couldn't remember the last time she'd felt even a little bit hopeful. She gave his cheek a big, smacking kiss and leaned back, unable to stop grinning.

Out the corner of her eye, she saw Syn shake her head. "And with that unsettling sight in my head, I'm going over to Hill's to get supplies."

"I'm going to go try the telegraph again," Rogers said.

"Good luck," Nat told him.

Clint turned to watch him go. "I'm going to need more ammo than I brought."

*

Steve had a productive afternoon. He telegraphed the stage company, who promised to send a backup driver and shotgun, and notify the stops down the line of the delay. They also asked he secure the strongbox the bandits had been after, and the rest of the mail.

The other mailbags were locked in Natasha's office at the saloon. Stark had the strongbox at the blacksmith's along with the stage itself. He'd hidden it decently, and that seemed as good a place as any until they found somewhere more secure for it. Steve was hesitant to take it to the actual bank, though it had a safe, since apparently Pierce owned that. Stark also had a list of orders on his slate to keep him busy for a month.

"Everybody tells me I owe the Overlord a fee," Stark commented. "So I suppose I'll meet him or his minions eventually."

Steve leaned on the wall farthest from the anvil, watching to the other man hold some bit of metal into the fire until it glowed orange. "I imagine he'll show up to meet us all sooner or later. Man like that won't take kindly to a marshal around."

"Especially not one who's stirring up trouble."

"It wouldn't be trouble if he was a law abiding man."

Stark brought whatever he was working over to the anvil and began to strike it with the hammer. "You know, you should probably build a jail."

That wasn't a bad idea, actually. "I'm not much of a carpenter. Though I suppose there must be one. I should check with Natasha."

"I'll give you a good deal on shackles and iron bars."

Steve grinned. "I appreciate that, I really do. I'm probably going to have to haggle with Mrs. Hill on ammunition prices."

"She's a shrewd negotiator, you be careful there."

"I noticed she's on top of your list there."

"She makes good pie." He held up the metal he was hammering. "And besides, along with her horseshoes she wanted a sword. God knows what she's going to do with it, but it's way more fun to make than door hinges."

Steve's brows arched. "Hell, if you're making weapons maybe I'll add a good knife to your list. Maybe a suit of armor if this all goes south."

"If I'm making a suit of armor I'm putting on myself, not you."

"Maybe just a shield, then," he joked. "I'll make up some family crest."

"We'll stick your badge on the front." He dunked Hill's sword in the water so it hissed and threw up a cloud of steam.

When the steam cleared, Steve asked. "You think I'm crazy?"

He gestured at the fire, and at the slate full of orders. "I live in a glass house, Marshal."

"Maybe it's just something about this town. Sucks people in."

He put the sword back in the forge, watching the flames for a moment as the steel began to glow. Steve watched another minute or two, then pushed off the wall. He should figure out who to talk to about building a jail. 

On his way out he passed the slate and paused long enough to write "Rogers - shield" on it as a joke. After that he went to visit the General Store. He asked Hill about ordering ammo, and she replied that she could get him as much as he needed, or maybe not much, depending.

"Depending on what?"

"Circumstances."

This really was a very strange town. It did appear to have, at some point, had a sheriff of some sort. There was an office. The door was marginally boarded, and when he forced it open, he found it had a rudimentary jail cell. The lock was broken on the cell door, and there was a large hole in the back of the cell. It was very obvious that some sort of animal was currently or very recently living in there.

He really didn't want to go ask Hill for a broom, so he went all the way back to the saloon and asked for cleaning supplies. Nat wasn't around, nor was Syn, but the two girls who were seemed to recognize him and handed over a broom and some rags with bemused expressions. Figuring he'd given them a story to tell, he went back to the jail and started cleaning house.

"We closed the jail because we didn't need it," said a voice behind him.

Steve turned to find a man standing in the doorway. He was older than he'd pictured, old enough to be Steve's father, most likely, in a sharp, East Coast suit. A watch chain glinted against his waist coat and he wore a soot black hat with silver accents. He had his hands shoved in his pockets and was watching Steve thoughtfully. 

"Mr. Pierce, I presume?" he asked.

He nodded. "Pleasure to make your acquaintance, Marshal."

Steve leaned on his broom. "I've heard a lot about you in this little town."

"I am one of our most prominent citizens."

"That's a way of putting it. I suppose you heard about our trouble with the stage."

"There are some dangerous people out there. That's why I like to keep this town safe." He strolled into the room, looking about as if he was making a casual inspection. 

Steve made a point of staying still, moving only his head to watch the other man's circuit. He'd played the alpha male, dominance game a few times. "I figured, since I'm likely to be stuck here a time I'd make myself useful. Being a lawman and all."

Pierce shook his head. "As I said, there isn't much of a need. We don't have any crime."

"That sounds mighty utopic, Mr. Pierce."

He turned to face Steve fully. "We've weeded out the bad element."

Steve smiled. "Now, how did you manage that, do you suppose?"

"They're very easy to find. You just have to be willing to look. Be firm in what will and will not be tolerated, and back it up with teeth."

Shaking his head, Steve clucked his tongue. "Now, I've heard about your teeth. I think you might be taking off too big a bite."

His eyes narrowed. "Is that so?"

Steve nodded slowly. "See, Mr. Pierce, there's a difference between order and fear. You might have the illusion of law and justice but it's only because everyone in town is afraid of you. And when they stop being afraid, well, I've heard tell you use those folks to remind the rest of them why you're so scary. But I'm not scared of you, Mr. Pierce. And I'm going to see to it no one else has to be, either."

He tilted his head, seemingly unfazed. "That the Rebs couldn't hit you from 20 feet away at Antietam seems to have convinced you you're bulletproof."

The threat to shoot him was unremarkable and completely expected. The fact that he'd clearly wired somebody or other for information on Steve's background, including his admittedly somewhat famous brigade was. . . interesting. Pierce considered him a threat.

"I know everything about everything and everyone in my town," he added, before Steve could respond.

"That's very thorough of you. I'd expect nothing less. And now you know what I'm about and that I can't be brought over to your side. I've met Loki and wasn't terribly impressed, besides he just had a bit of an embarrassment in the saloon. So I'm guessing your next move is to send your gun down to threaten me." Pierce's expression gave nothing away, "Or maybe you'll decide to bide your time, wait me out. See if I get bored and leave when the stage finally comes. It could happen, I suppose." He smiled. "Antietam taught me a few things, Mr. Pierce. How to dodge bullets was only one of 'em."

"We should have a drink one of these days, I'll tell you about what I learned fighting Santa Ana. Or the Seminoles. It's not always straight lines of soldiers in a row."

"Wasn't a lot of orderly rank and file in my experience, either. But I'll take you up on that drink sometime."

They stared each other down for a moment, and then Pierce tipped his hat. "Welcome to Triskellion, Marshal Rogers."

Steve touched his own brim and said, "Sir." Then Pierce turned on a heel and sauntered out of the jail.


	5. The Eagle and the Hawk

From the rooftop of the saloon, Clint watched Pierce saunter out of the new Marshal's office Rogers seemed to be fixing up. He very much wanted to fire, but even he knew the situation was too unclear to start shooting. Yet. 

He tracked the man in his scope down the boardwalk, climbing on his horse, and riding down to the end of the street. He watched him all the way until he started up the road to his big fancy house outside of town. The house was almost a mile out, out of the range of his Sharps. He'd stolen a big heavy British rifle off a dead Confederate sharpshooter at Gettysburg. That had had a longer range. But he hadn't wanted to haul a 30lb muzzle loader out west. Now he wished he had.

He got up and went downstairs. One of Natasha's girls was scrubbing the floor in the bar. Nat herself had gone to bring Doc and his patient something to eat. "When she comes back, can you tell her I went to the General Store?"

"Sure thing. She'll pass right by you on her way back. Maybe she'll spot you."

He tipped his hat and went out into the street. He probably should go talk to Rogers first, now that he thought about it. He could only imagine what Pierce had said.

Rogers was also cleaning the floor, sweeping up what looked like a year or more of dust and animal droppings. He looked up when Clint wrapped the jamb. "I'm popular today."

"I thought about shooting his top hat off," Clint said. "But I didn't know if that would help or hinder your interaction with him."

"Might've been funny." He looked back to his sweeping. "Pierce came to size me up, see if he could cow me. The fact he couldn't seems to have spooked him a bit. Now I'm waiting on his next move."

"I would assume try to kill you, though even he may be apprehensive about gunning down a Marshal."

"I think he is. He's gonna bide his time and come at it sideways."

That could mean all manner of things. Few of them any good. "And what are you going to do?"

Rogers glanced around the room. "Get the jail set up. Arm myself as best I can. Wait and see."

"I could kill him and he'd never know where the bullet came from."

"I'll keep that in mind. But for now I'd like to do this the lawful way. Else we'll just be leaving a hole for some other tyrant to fill."

"I did say I would be your deputy, so I will follow your lead." He paused. "One exception. If his idea of sideways is to come after Natasha, all bets are off. You can arrest me afterwards if you want."

Rogers nodded. "I understand. And I think I'll consider the protection of an innocent bystander perfectly reasonable."

He'd do it out of vengeance, too, if it came to that. . . but he didn't need to get into that with Rogers. "You need help with this?"

The other man didn't bother to hide his surprise. "If you're willing to help I won't say no."

"I have to go order something from the General Store. I'll get another broom."

"Thanks. Watch yourself around Hill, she's a little squirrely."

"Eh. I've known her a long time. She could chew nails."

Rogers tipped his hat. "Whatever you say."

Before he could go anywhere, there was a knock on the doorframe behind him. He turned to see a man he didn't recognize, though he wore a reverend's collar. He looked from Clint to Rogers and back. "Is one of you the Marshal?"

Rogers straightened, looking interested but wary. "That's me."

He held out a hand. "I just came to welcome you to town. I'm Reverend Coulson."

"Pleasure to meet you, sir," Rogers said, shaking his hand firmly. "Guess word's gotten round about me."

"It's a small town." He looked over at Clint expectantly. 

"Barton," he replied. "I seem to be the deputy. What happened to Rev. McCarthy?"

A very strange expression crossed the reverend's face. "I'm lead to believe he was forced to relocate. Crisis of faith."

"I can see how this town could do that," Rogers commented.

Coulson just nodded. "Well. Every flock is important." He and Rogers exchanged a look. Then Coulson added, "Also, I understand there was a robbery of the stage? And that bodies were left by the side of the road?"

Rogers glanced over at Clint, guilt obvious on his face. "Uh, yeah. We didn't really have any way of transporting them."

"I would like to go collect them, and see that they get a proper burial."

"Of course. I could take you out any time."

And that was how Clint spent his afternoon, hauling dead bodies and digging graves. They borrowed a wagon and canvas from Thor, who promised to knock together a couple of coffins by the time they got back to town. The town had no undertaker, so dead bodies were handled by some combination of the Reverend, Doc, Wilson and/or Thor, plus family members, depending on who was dead and what they'd died from. Coulson seemed to recognize at least one of the dead men, but didn't comment.

The night and day out on the road hadn't done the bandits any favors, but there was enough left to put in the coffins and lower into the ground. It was nice enough. He hoped when his time came he got at least as much.

Thor stuck around and helped them fill in the graves, which was also nice. Then they all stood in the cemetery while Coulson said whatever words people say over dead bodies. Clint really wasn't much for God—you came out of war either deeply religious or convinced it was all bullshit. He'd seen too many men's prayers rewarded by a slow, painful death. If there was a God, he'd probably be going to hell for all the men he killed. But like the ones going in the ground today, he'd killed them clean. He never, ever left a target to die from gangrene or blood loss. It was the only human thing to do in an inhuman time.

When it was all said and done Coulson thanked him and Thor for the help and reminded them he'd be holding service on Sunday as always. Then he strolled out of the little graveyard, leaving Clint alone with the big blonde man.

After a moment’s pause, Thor said, "So. Drinks?"

Clint smiled. "It's like you read my mind."

Thor slung his shovel onto his shoulder as they headed down the hill. "I'll buy your a round if you take the next."

"Well," he said slowly. "I don't think I need to pay."

"Ah, yes. I'm told you and Miss Natasha have a history."

History they certainly had. For a long time he'd thought it would remain just that. After the war he was certain there was no way he could be anything to her, or anyone. But time made memories hazier, and he found he needed her. So he was here, even if he was half-convinced it was going to somehow end terribly. "I do sort of live there. I think." They hadn't really discussed that.

"Well," Thor said brightly, "I'll be happy to let you buy all the rounds."

"I believe we have reached an agreement."

There was a handful of men already in the saloon when they walked in, including a table of four playing what appeared to be, so far, a friendly game of cards. Nat, Syn, and two other girls were clustered around the bar, doing various chores, including folding sheets and cleaning glasses. 

Nat smiled when she saw him, then wrinkled her nose. "Were you rolling in the dirt?"

"We met the preacher, he convinced us to bring the bodies from the stage hold up back to town and bury them. A bath would probably be a decent idea, actually. But first Thor and I would like a drink."

If she'd been thinking of holding him, the mention of bodies stopped her. She handed the sheet she'd been folding to the little blonde woman who'd been helping her and went around to pour a drinks. "Yes," she said, holding the mugs out. "Bath."

Clint chuckled. The saloon doors opened and Amanda wandered in. She wrinkled her nose at the two of them, and Natasha muttered, "Don't ask."

The other woman nodded. "I came to see if I could get a couple meals and update you on Cal."

"Marshal Rogers said he seemed to be doing well this morning," Thor said. "Has his condition changed?"

"He's awake, asking for food, though we're sticking to water and broth for now. He has requested Darcy bring it by." She looked over at Clint. "He's also asking about the men who brought him in. Wants to thank you."

"I'm happy to stop by once I clean up," Clint said. He glanced down at himself. "You can tell him we gave his outrider a proper burial today."

"I will pass that on." She paused, then added, "That was mighty decent of you."

He sighed. "I'm not decent. I just got cornered by the Reverend."

Amanda grinned. "He's very persuasive."

"There are few genuinely good people left in this town," Thor said. "But I do believe he is one of them."

Nat set a couple of covered bowls of stew she'd brought up on the counter. "I hear the schoolmarm is very nice as well." 

Clint was really amused that Thor's cheeks flushed at that statement. All he said in reply was, "Indeed."

Amanda and Nat shared a knowing smile. “Darcy’s dishing up some broth right now,” Nat told her.

The nurse nodded. "That you, Natasha. I'll let Cal know you plan to stop by," she directed at Clint. "Let the Marshal know, too. Banner or I are there all the time to show you in."

"I'll be by this evening." He tipped his hat. "Ma'am." She nodded and made her way out of the saloon.

"You want me to start that bath, then?" Nat asked.

He shrugged. "I don't imagine you want the other girls doing it."

"Nah. I'll even let you use my tub." That with a saucy smile. Thor raised his mug in toast, and Clint tipped his hat. Then he followed Natasha into the back.

A corner of the kitchen was screened off to provide privacy for the big copper tub that lived there. They had a smaller, more portable tub for the customers, that moved around upstairs, but this one was just for Nat and the girls. She pumped water into a pot and set it over the first to start heating it up.

He went over to the pump and began filling buckets with cold water to fill the tub. "This is a really nice bathtub."

She glanced over at it and her mouth quirked into a smile. "I had Hill order it for me. First thing I did after I got control of the saloon."

He filled another bucket of cold water. "Pierce came to size up Rogers this afternoon."

That got her attention. "How did that go?"

"Don't entirely know, I watched through a scope. I think it was mostly, you know, dick measuring. Rogers said Pierce wasn't happy when he left. That plus this morning's incident with the Mail Man. . . there may be some noise soon."

"Sometimes I feel like this whole town's holding its breath. Maybe it's time for some noise."

The water on the stove stove started to boil. He sat on one of the benches by the table to take his boots off. "How well armed are you here?"

"I have a shot gun. Syn has a knife and a revolver. I think some of the other girls have guns. Don't know how good they are with them."

He stripped out of his filthy clothes. All of his clothes were now filthy, he realized. "What's your laundry day?"

"Sunday. No one feels like buying a whore after they've been to one of Coulson's services."

He pulled his shirt over his head and inspected it while she carried the pot of hot water over. Maybe airing it out would help. "Might I add some items to the pile?"

She looked at the shirt and wrinkled her nose again. "Of course. Can you wait until Sunday?"

"I'll air them out. See if maybe Stark has a spare. He had luggage." He stood and walked around the screen to where she was pouring water into the now-steaming tub. He didn't know why he waited until he was behind the screen to take his pants off—not a lot of modesty in a brothel—but he did. 

Nat certainly looked all she wanted. "Want me to wash your back?"

He grinned as he stepped into the water, and sank down with a groan. "Honey, you can wash anything you want."

She dropped a kiss on top of his head and wandered to the other side of the screen again. She returned with a bar of soap and a cloth and pulled a chair up behind him. He watched her dip them both in the water. "Loki will have told him coming after me would be foolish. He may try anyway. Or he may come after you."

The warm, wet cloth hit his back and she rubbed in long, slow circles. "I suppose we'll have to watch each other's backs."

Her touch was both relaxing and highly distracting. "Would you ever consider leaving?"

There was silence as she soaped up the rest of his back, as well as his shoulders. "Maybe," she said finally. "If I thought the people I left behind would be safe."

"Never leave a man behind in battle?"

The cloth disappeared and she began to massage his shoulders with her hands. "Something like that."

He was quiet again, just enjoying the back rub. Eventually he said, "You'd be surprised how quickly people lose their sense of dignity in battle."

Her thumbs stroked along either side of his spine. "I imagine your priorities change."

"Death is a frightening prospect."

"You made it through."

He picked up the washcloth and the bar of soap she'd put down. He didn't know why he was talking about the war. Digging graves and scoping a target dragged up those sorts of thoughts. "Only to come here and wander right into another war."

She sighed and he felt her press her face into his hair. "I'm sorry, Clint."

Her voice sounded sad and exhausted and resigned. He reached over his shoulders for her hands just so he could hold them. "Don't. You didn't start it."

"I didn't mean to drag you into it. I never thought you'd come back."

He turned a little. "How could you send me that letter and not think I'd come back?"

She shrugged. "No one ever comes back. World ends at the town line."

"Not everyone is looking out only for themselves."

With a sigh, she leaned forward to rest her head on his again. "Most are."

He moved just a little, so he could kiss her. "Well. I'm here as long as you are. All right?"

She sniffled and nodded. "All right. And when it's all settled we can go wherever we want."

"Anywhere." He wiped a tear she'd deny with her last breath off her cheek. "It may get worse first, though. Here."

"I know. We'll manage. Together." 

She seemed more settled, so he went back to washing the rest of himself before the water cooled. "Some of your girls my benefit from shooting lessons."

"I'm sure they'd appreciate that. I might like a refresher as well."

He poured some water over his head to wash his hair. "You wouldn't happen to have anything clean I could wear?"

She tipped her head back a moment, then stood. "I'll be right back." She moved around the screens with a swish of skirts and he heard her steps cross the kitchen and leave. He scrubbed and rinsed his hair, then waited until she returned, now carrying a dressing gown. "It was Fury's. I kept it as a spare."

He smiled, standing up and grabbing the towel she'd set out. "Just in case one of the clients lost his pants?"

"It's a whorehouse," she said with a shrug. "Shit happens."

He stepped out of the tub and took the dressing gown. "We didn't discuss. . . I seem to be living here."

He didn't miss the once over she gave him once he was out of the tub. "It appears so, yes. Rogers had made himself comfortable, as well."

"I imagine he'll move to his office once it's fixed up. And he's not in _your_ room."

"No, he's not. Unless that's where this conversation is going, in which case I should warn you, that costs extra."

"Jesus." He laughed and put a hand over his eyes. "That's not a mental image I needed."

Stepping forward, she kissed his jaw, then his mouth. "It's a whorehouse. Shit happens."

He slid his arms around her. "All I'm saying is, I don't mean to intrude if I am intruding. If you need a little private space."

She laughed. "You have never been a particularly intrusive person, Clint. I think I can manage to put up with you."

"Feel like putting up with me upstairs for a little bit?"

She kissed him again. "I think that can be arranged."

*

Despite dire predictions from Barton, Rogers and even Natasha, for three days, nothing happened. Rogers rebuilt the jail and started sleeping there. Stark smithed during the day and came by the saloon for meals and baths in the evening. The usual customers came through for meals or alcohol or sex. Cal's wound was healing well. The poor Koenigs mostly kept to themselves and waited for the next stage to come.

Coulson gave his usual service on Sunday and business was slow, so they did their laundry and had their baths and bought supplies for the week. It was all very much life as usual. It seemed like they'd all just about stopped holding their breath, waiting for Pierce to do something violent.  
 And then, on Monday night, Loki sauntered in and took a seat at a table.

Syn was working behind the bar while Nat ran food in and out of the kitchen and Darcy and the others worked the men. Mondays tended to be busy, apparently abstaining on Sundays was quite enough for everyone's morals, so they were all running about with no time to dawdle. Thor was at his usual spot at the end of the bar, now joined by Rogers and Barton. Tables were full of men eating or playing cards or flirting with girls. If they had nights like this every day Syn could have retired on a bed of gold by now.  
 When Loki walked in, conversation seemed to hush slightly and people watched him cross the room to a table near the stairs. He folded his long, lean body into the chair and rested his arm on the table, as if he was in there every night.

She could see the men at the end of the bar notice him. Both Barton and Rogers's hands disappeared below the bar. Reaching for guns, she imagined. Thor put his drink down, and watched his brother very intently.

When Nat next came out of the kitchen Syn caught her eye and gestured to the men at the bar, then Loki. "The tension is a little thick."

Nat sighed. "Let me drop these biscuits off and I'll see what he wants."

"You want me to talk to him?" Syn offered. "I don't want Barton to shoot him prematurely. Would kill tonight's take."

Another sigh, this one somewhat resigned. "That would be great. Watch yourself."

Syn nodded and dried her hands off, stepping around the bar. The men watched her as she made her way over to Loki's table and sank into the empty chair. "Can I help you?"

"I am here to procure a. . . lady," he said. 

She focused on not reacting to that for fear any sort of strong emotion might make Barton shoot him on principle. "Well, you've certainly come to the right place."

"Yes, I did hear this was a brothel." There was sarcasm in his voice, but he was clearly trying to reign it in.

Oh, this would be _fun_. "Did you have anyone in particular in mind? Or will any orifice do?"

"You realize I'm now almost physically compelled to make an impolite comment with regards to your mouth." 

She braced her elbow on the table, then propped her chin in her hand. "After that, I would be obliged to discuss my detailed and line itemed price list."

His gaze wandered over her. "You do look expensive."

"Oh, but honey, I'm worth every penny."

"I do not doubt it. I think perhaps I'll start with a drink."

"What's your poison? Or shall I surprise you?"

That got her a smile. "Surprise me."

She didn't know why the smile pleased her so. But she gave a little nod and stood, heading back to the bar for drinks. Nat appeared beside her a moment later. "What does he want?"

"What most men want when they come in. A girl." She wondered if she should bring over bourbon. They had a dusty bottle. Thor drank it sometimes when he was in a good mood, which was to say, rarely. Southern people drank bourbon, right?

"You do _not_ have to. I can have Clint throw him out. He'd love to do it."

"I'm sure he would. And Loki would love to make a huge fuss and Thor would probably get involved and we'd lose two tables and a dozen glasses, not to mention half the customers." Aha! Bourbon. She dug it and two glasses out. "He's an asshole and I'm surprised his ego fits in the room but he's good looking and relatively clean. I'm sure I've fucked worse." She tossed Nat a grin. "He can't be nearly as weird as Reverend McCarthy."

Nat snorted. "Well, that's true."

The previous minister had been a regular of Syn's. Had paid her to thwack him with a ruler and tell him how bad he was while he prayed. "I miss sitting in the back of the church and waving at him while he did his sermons," she said a little wistfully. She gathered up the glasses and bottle. "I'll get him upstairs for the night and everyone down here can calm down. If he gets out of line I can defend myself."

"And we'll come running if you can't." She shrugged. "Darcy commented some of the guys who get rough have been less so this week. Chaps me that just the fact that a man lives here now helps keep them in line. . . but on the other hand, I'll take it."

Syn grinned. "I don't mind it. Just means they're surprised when we take care of ourselves." She started towards the table, then stopped and added. "Make sure it's the wrong kind of screaming. Before you come rescue me." Nat wrinkled her nose and shook her head.

Syn was laughing a little when she rejoined Loki. "Bourbon," she said, pouring them each a glass. "Though probably beneath your standards."

"Well," he murmured. "We are in Kansas." He picked up a glass and held it up. "Thank you."

She clinked her glass against his. "Cheers."

He drained his glass and refilled it. "So how does this work? Do I pay you? Her?"

Direct, she liked that. "You pay me," she said, nursing her drink. The bourbon was actually pretty good, at least to her tongue, but her getting drunk wouldn't end well. "If all you need is a quick tumble to get off that price is negotiable, depending on how you want it. The whole night is ten dollars. For that you get me till breakfast, a room and the bottle. We can do anything you like that doesn't leave a mark." She shrugged. "And maybe a couple things that do."

He watched her a moment, then opened his billfold and removed a ten dollar bill. He slid it across the table to her. She looked at the bill a moment. Honestly, she hadn't been entirely sure he was serious until that moment. She scooped up the tenner, tucked it away in her bodice and stood. She picked up her glass and the bottle of bourbon, then held out her free hand to him. He took it, and stood. Across the room, Thor stood up as well. Syn could see Nat make a motion for him to sit back down.

His hand was cool and dry in hers, long fingers wrapped firmly around her palm. She gave him a gentle, instinctive squeeze and tugged him towards the stairs. He followed her up and the others watched her like she was heading to her execution.


	6. A Man Alone

On the stairs Loki said, "I'm not going to hurt you."

She looked back at him in surprise. "I know. I wouldn't be bringing you up if I thought you would."

"The other women were watching with alarm."

"Ah. Well. I love the others, in my way, but they can be narrow-minded. They see your fancy clothes and unfortunate employment choices and think you're a villain in a novel."

"I know the accent doesn't help," he said with a sigh.

"Not really, no." She lead him down the hall to her room and pushed the door open, gesturing him to go ahead.

He strolled as far as the middle of the room. "Particularly ironic, as I fought for the Union in the war."

She put the bourbon down on a small table she kept for such things and sank into the little chair next to it. "I didn't know that," she said, honestly surprised. "Thor fought in grey."

"Well, he was always a good son." She didn't miss the bitterness in his voice. He reached for the bourbon and poured himself another glass.

At least he was admitting they were related, in a round about way. She sipped her drink and took the bottle from him to refill it. "Your family didn't appreciate brains over brawn?"

She watched him empty his drink and fill it again. If he kept going like that, she wouldn't have to do anything tonight but tuck him in. "Let's just say they preferred their own full, legitimate blood."

Oh, well _that_ was interesting. "Is that why you don't call him brother?"

He waved his glass around, and then drank from it. "I suppose technically we are somewhat. We do share a sire."

"I imagine joining the union was an excellent form of rebellion. Again, rather ironic."

He stopped, and turned. "I didn't do it out of rebellion," he snapped. "You make it sound like the whim of a foolish child."

Ah, bit of a misstep, that. She bought a moment sipping her bourbon. "Why did you do it?"

He sat on the side of her bed, and was quiet so long she thought maybe he wouldn't answer. Then he said, "My entire life was a lie."

Slowly, she topped her glass of and slipped out of the chair, joining him on the bed, but not touching him. "You didn't know you were illegitimate until you were older," she guessed. "That must have been quite a blow."

"I think I might have recovered if it were only that simple." He looked over at her for a moment, and then took another drink. "I still keep expecting someone, somewhere, will be able to look at me and be able to tell." 

Her brow furrowed. "Tell-" She stopped abruptly, staring at his hair. She'd often wondered how on earth ruddy, broad, blonde Thor could be brothers with thin, wiry, dark haired Loki. It would take strong genes to blot out any resemblance.

 She was a pretty good judge of men. Pretty good at knowing what they liked, how they wanted to be touched. Some wanted you to moan and writhe. Some wanted compliments and adoration. Some wanted you to just lie there and let them pretend you were someone else. She didn't know what kind Loki was just yet. It was possible she never would. But right now, he sure seemed to need a hug.

Sliding an arm around his back, she leaned on him. "Your mother was a slave." It was statement, not a question.

"Mmm," he said, moving his head in a nod. "She died in childbirth, and I came out white as anything, so my father decided I could pass and he would take me to raise. So I could have a 'normal' life." 

She played with the ends of his hair. "Until one day you found at the truth. And everything was turned upside down."

"To say the least. There was a girl that lived up the road. I desperately wanted to marry her. My father was against it. I could never understand why, what he objected to about her. Finally he told me it wasn't her, it was me. Heaven knew how the children would come out."

Syn was not sympathetic to self pity as a general rule. Life was hard and sometimes you needed to stiffen up and move on. The world wouldn't wait for you to feel sad. But she could also admit that sometimes a little wallowing was vindicated. She lifted her head and kissed his cheek. "I'm sorry, Loki."

He shook off her arm and stood up. "I shouldn't have told you."

She watched him stalk away from her, as far as he could in her little room. "Why not? I'm not going to tell any one."

"Are you a priest? You could tell anyone you want to. I can only imagine how much this would entertain Natasha and her friends."

"This might surprise you, but you are not the first man to unburden himself on the sympathetic ear of a whore." He gave her a sharp look. "Girls like me don't get far gossiping about their clients. Lots of secrets come to light when you're naked with someone. Even as simple as who's a quick shot and who likes to get tied up. I don't kiss and tell, Loki. No matter how juicy the tale."

"No matter how evil the subject?"

She was becoming more and more sure that sex wasn't happening tonight. That probably shouldn't disappoint her, but it did a bit. Enough to slug back her bourbon and refill it before settling back against her headboard. "My mother used to tell me about a tradition they had in the old country called a Sin Eater. They would have a meal at the house of a recently deceased person and through some ritual take on the sins of that person, so they could move on to the afterlife." She gestured with her glass. "Consider me your Sin Eater. You don't even have to be dead."

"Even if you took away everything I've done—which is likely worse than you're imagining—it does not and cannot fix what I am."

"No," she agreed. "That's something you have to live with the rest of your life. It's your choice if you continue to do that by lashing out at the world."

He made a face. "I didn't come here to be lectured."

She shrugged. "Why did you come? And don't say for a woman because you haven't even tried to cop a feel."

"Well, I certainly don't expect you to fuck me now."

The bourbon was starting to go to her head, it was the only explanation for her next words. "Honey, I was going to fuck you when I thought you were an asshole who worked for a murderous tyrant who owns our town and frequently threatens my friend. Who your parents were is the least of my concerns."

He met her eyes, and just stared for a long time. "Pierce wants to burn down the saloon."

Breath rushed out of her lungs as if she'd been struck. "What? When?"

"After the new Stage drivers arrive and take Cal and the passengers out of town."

Good Lord, there was not enough bourbon left in the bottle for her to deal with this. She met his gaze again. "That one I'm probably going to want to tell someone."

"I know. That's why I came here." He rubbed the back of his neck. "Mrs. Hill wired an order back east for Whitworth rile. She orders all sorts of things, including weapons, and I wouldn't have thought anything of it, except I happened recognize that particular gun. It's a long range sharpshooter rifle. I've heard the range is nearly a mile. A good enough marksman could reach Pierce's house from the roof of a building in town. Our new deputy, for example. So I warned him."

"And naturally his response is grand scale arson."

"He figures lighting the place up in the middle of the night is his best chance of killing Barton, scaring the pants out of anyone who survives, and punishing the town for welcoming the new Marshal. And he thinks Natasha doesn't respect him. Somehow that justifies killing a dozen people. More if the fire gets out of control."

As it easily could. The building to their left was empty, but there the smith and the bank to their right. Pierce was putting his own people in danger as well as them.

She got up and retrieved the bourbon and offered it to him after filling her glass. "What happens to you if he finds out you told me?"

His laugh had no humor, and he took the drink. "How do you imagine betrayal is received, given what mere defiance results in?"

Syn wondered what the men downstairs would think when they found out Loki had a conscience. She stepped closer to him and hooked a finger in his belt to tug him closer still. He wore a gun belt, but she didn't recall him ever having drawn the thing. "Thank you for telling me," she said softly.

"Apparently even I have limits," he said, just as quietly.

"I'll tell the others in the morning. We'll figure out a way to catch the arsonists without looking like we had advanced warning. We'll keep you out of it."

"Thank you." He leaned forward and kissed her forehead rather tenderly. "Don't put yourselves in danger to protect me, though. I knew what I was choosing to do."

The little kiss shot right through her, tightening her chest oddly. "We have plenty of big strong men who'll be happy to put themselves in danger and be the hero of the day. Don't worry." She reached back and put her glass down on the table, then turned back to him. "Now then," she said, fingers slowly loosening up his gun belt. "The whole saloon saw me bring you up here and I have a reputation to maintain. What do you think about trying to make that chandelier down there swing?"

"You don't have to—I mean I—you can keep the ten dollars," he stuttered, looking down at her hands.

She set the gun belt down carefully on the chair. Men were twitchy about their weapons, even the ones they didn't use. She found the fact he'd gone from crude if oblique references to blow jobs to nervous stammering in the course of half an hour rather adorable. "Can I assume you're demurring on my account and you wouldn't _mind_ if the fucking happened?" she asked as she started untucking his shirt. "Because I am willing and able."

He inhaled an unsteady breath. "I'm trying to tell you that you don't have to."

"And _I_ am trying to tell you that I want to and am attempting to determine your level of want."

He lifted his eyes to hers. "Of course I do."

She couldn't help her grin. “Good," she said. Then she went up on tiptoe and kissed him. He was still just a moment before he reacted, reaching up and holding her face in his hands while he kissed her.

He tasted of bourbon and some expensive brand of tobacco she didn't recognize. His hands were remarkably gentle and he let her set the terms of the kiss, two things she was absolutely not accustomed to. She ran her hands down his front and felt trim muscle under the fine cloth of his shirt. Very carefully she unfastened his waistcoat, all without looking. He let go of her to shrug it off, then lifted his arms so she could pull his shirt up and off.

The chest she revealed was pale and leanly muscled, with faint scars here and there. She'd yet to meet a man who fought in the war who didn't have one or two, Tracing her fingertips over him, she kissed him again, nudging him towards the bed.

He touched her corset and tugged at the laces. "I want you to take this off. Take everything off."

Some men liked to unwrap and some men liked to watch. She'd suspected he'd be the latter. She gave him one last little nudge so that he sat on the bed, then stepped back so he'd get a good view. Her corset went quick, having been designed to go on and off easily. He watched her intently as she dropped it. She untied her petticoats and let them drop next. Then her shift and drawers. Finally she reached up and took out the handful of pins she'd used to keep her hair off her face, letting the mass of messy waves fall freely. Men generally loved her hair as much as she tended to hate it.

He leaned back and smiled. "God, you are beautiful." Then he reached for her, sliding his arms around her waist and pulling her close enough to kiss her breasts. She put a knee on the bed and he supported her for her to get the other up and settle on his lap, straddling his thighs. She pressed her face into his hair as he nuzzled at her.

She'd meant what she'd told Nat. He was far better than others she'd slept with. She found him attractive and he actually smelled rather divine. That he was tender and interested in her enjoyment was a bonus. As was the fact he seemed to honestly find her attractive as well. At the moment he was taking a slow tour of her with his hands, the sort most men never bothered with. It was the kind that felt like he was trying to learn her. Like he expected them to do this again.

He cupped her rear in his hands and tugged her against him, so she felt the hard press of his hardening cock even through the fabric of his pants. That, plus the jolt of pleasure the touch shot through her, surprised a gasp and shudder from her.

He looked up at her. "What do you want? Does anyone ever ask you that?"

"Never," she admitted, playing with his hair. "I try to adapt, find enjoyment in whatever's happening."

His fingers trailed down her spine. "Tell me, then."

She gave it careful consideration, despite how distracting his hand was as it petted her. "I like it a little rough," she said finally, thoughtfully. "I like it when a man teases me with his fingers until I've come, or nearly so, and then thrusts in. I like to have my breasts touched and kissed. I don't mind bites. Just about any position is fine but I come easiest on my back or from behind." She paused, then added, "I like kissing."

He smiled, and then he flipped her onto her back on the bed. He bent his head to kiss one nipple. "Got it."

And so he did. He kissed and sucked and worshipped her breasts until she was flushed and panting just from that. On one particularly hard suck she felt teeth and damn near arched off the bed. When she relaxed she felt his hand between her thighs, fingers stroking at the damp flesh there. " _Loki_."

"That's my girl," he murmured against her skin as he sunk his fingers inside her.

This was not the way her nights usually went. Even the men who did try to see she was satisfied didn't spend this much time on it. Didn't find her clit and tease it, stroking and pressing and swirling until he found exactly what she liked. Didn't stroke his fingers inside her until she was lifting her hips and then shifted his rhythm to match hers.

For God's sake he still had his pants on and she felt like she was coming apart at the seams. And still he teased her breasts, though his attention had gotten a little rougher and uncontrolled. She was pretty sure at least one of his sucks was going to leave a mark.

He stilled, just when she thought she might explode. "Can I. . .?"

She nodded frantically, fingers clutching at his shoulders. "Please. Please." She tried to help him with the buttons on his trousers, but she was only in the way. He caught one hand and brought it up to kiss her wrist just before he thrust into her.

She damn near came right then, just from the feel of him inside her, stretching her in all the best ways. Her fingers tangled in his hair and she wrapped her legs around him, drawing her knees up as he started to move. She murmured his name again, arching into his thrusts. She could feel the bed shaking. The ropes creaked and the headboard thumped against the wall. He kissed her shoulder and she felt teeth on her neck.

Her cry was a blend of surprise, pleasure, and just a touch of pain. She hitched her legs higher on him, welcoming him deeper. And then the pleasure and heat that had been building up before either of them had lost a stitch of clothing bubbled over and flooded her. She said his name on a wail that she tried to muffle in his skin and clenched around him. He groaned, and she heard him whisper her name. As her climax settled down, very much to her surprise, she felt him pull out.

Instinctively, she tried to hold him to her. "What- Where-?"

She felt wetness against her thigh, and he shuddered. It took him a moment to mutter, "Mmm?"

Silly man. She brushed his hair off his face and kissed his temple. "You didn't have to."

He lifted his head and looked at her. "I know ladies such as yourself have methods. But they are not foolproof, and the consequences would be particularly high."

She fought the urge to point out that "not foolproof" and "easily thwarted" were very different things. As evidenced by the fact there weren't half a dozen bastards running around every tavern in the west. Every man liked to think his seed was the one to break through any obstacle. They could fight about it later, if they did this again.

So she just kissed him and cuddled into his side. "All right."

He pulled her closer. "May I stay here?"

"Mmmhmm. You have the room, and me, till morning." She nuzzled his shoulder. A nap, then she might see if she could get him to rise to the occasion a second time. "I haven't even shown you what I can do with my mouth."

*

"She's still not down yet. We should go bust the door in."

Nat groaned and thumped her head lightly on her arms where they were folded across the bar. It was scarcely ten o'clock, practically dawn to a hard working saloon owner or bar girl. Clint had dragged her out of bed so he could sit at the bar and glare at Loki when he came down. Or beat him up if Syn looked ill treated. Nat had tried to tell him that Syn would have put up a ruckus if anything had gone wrong, but he hadn't listened. Nor had Marshal Rogers when they found him already waiting at the bar.

She had then tried to explain to them that it was far too early to expect a customer to come down. They hadn't heeded that, either. Any of the three times she'd tried. Still, she gave it one more shot.

"He paid for the _whole night_. That's what he gets. I don't start knocking until noon and even then I give them the option to pay an extension. You are both like mother hens."

The door swung open and in came Thor, squinting like he had a hangover. Which he probably did. "He hasn't come down yet?"

"No," Rogers and Clint said in identical, ominous tones.

Nat thumped her head again. "Coffee, Thor?"

"Thank you," he said politely. He sat with the men. "Whatever his faults, he's not one to hurt women."

The other two seemed to remember they were discussing a man Thor considered a brother and responded accordingly. "We're just a little worried about his motivations. Natasha says he's never come here before."

"Not to buy a girl, anyway," she confirmed, putting a steaming mug in front of Thor.

"All men have needs."

There was the sound of a door closing upstairs and they all froze and turned to look at the stairs. A moment later Loki appeared, dressed in his sharp suit, hair combed back under his hat. Syn was behind him by a few steps, in what looked like a shift, petticoats and faded robe, looking decidedly rumpled. She stifled a yawn as she walked.

He stopped at the base of the steps and turned to say something to her which made her smile. Then she leaned forward and kissed him. To Nat's shock he reached out and slid his hands around her waist, lifting her down off the last step and onto the bar floor. He straightened, breaking the kiss and she reached up and playfully straightened his hat before he released her.

The silence was deafening. "Good morning, Miss Natasha," Loki said. "Gentlemen."

They all managed to mumble greetings.

"Would you like some coffee?" Nat asked politely, though she wasn't sure any of them would survive the awkwardness.

"No. Thank you. I should open the telegraph office for the morning." He touched his hat, gave Syn a small, private smile and headed for the door.

Syn leaned on the newel post, watching him go, and gave him a girlish little wave when he glanced back. Then he was gone and she moseyed over to the bar and poured herself a cup of coffee.

Slowly, Nat turned to look at her, noting the rather large hickey on her neck. "What on earth-" she started.

Syn held up a finger to stop her, draining her coffee in one long gulp. She put the empty mug down with a sigh and said, "Pierce plans to try and burn the saloon down after Cal and the Koenigs leave on the new stage."

They all stared at her in surprise. It was Rogers who asked, "Does he talk in his sleep?"

She shook her head. "He came to warn us. Thought buying a girl would give him a chance to talk in private."

"No shit," Clint muttered.

Thor smiled. "I knew my brother was in there somewhere."

"I promised him we'd try to protect the bar without making it known he'd told us. Pierce will kill him if he finds out."

"Why did he warn us?" Rogers asked. "What's in it for him?"

Syn poured herself more coffee. "He just said even he has limits."

Nat rubbed her eyes. "How do we stop this?"

"He'll do it late, when people are asleep. So we'll need to figure out some sort of sentry watch." Rogers looked at Syn. "Did he say who would do it?"

She shook her head. "Not him. Probably not the soldier, stealth isn't his thing. But Pierce has plenty of lackeys willing to do bad things for big money."

Clint turned to look at Rogers. " _Now_ can I kill him?"

"Yeah, that's why he's burning the building down," Syn said. They turned to look at her. "Hill ordered some rifle with a mile range on it. Pierce realized you could shoot him from pretty much anywhere in town with it. So he's trying to take you out and scare the rest of us into submission."

Thor and Rogers both looked at him, so he said, "I ordered a Whitworth. I didn't think about the tattler on the telegraph figuring it out. It's what Confederate sharpshooters used, so I suppose he'd know."

"He didn't fight for the south," Thor said. "But he has always been a connoisseur of guns."

That was interesting, if not entirely relevant at the moment. Nat frowned. "If he's the one that told Pierce about it-" She glanced at Syn, who gave a little nod. "It could be he feels responsible for the plan and that's why he warned us."

"I'll sleep during the day and keep a night watch," Clint said. "If people are awake, they risk getting caught, or having the fire put out. Daylight is too conspicuous. So the window is pretty narrow--from closing to dawn."

"You make the most sense," Rogers agreed. "Say you had insomnia or heard a funny noise."

"Oh," he said, sounding mildly offended. "They won't notice me even if they're watching."

"I think he's implying you stop them so he can arrest them," Nat said. "And would then need to explain how you happened to catch them."

"Arrest them?" he asked incredulously.

"Yes," Rogers said patiently. "So that we can trace it back to Pierce."

"We already know it's Pierce."

"Because we have a tip from a witness who won't identify himself. If we catch arsonists in the act who will point back at Pierce I can arrest _him_ and get him out of this town legally."

He turned and pointed at Rogers. "You and I had a very specific conversation about what would happen if he came after her." He pointed back at Nat. "It was three days ago."

"This gives us an opportunity to do this _right_. Killing only leads to more killing."

Syn pushed off the back bar. "Well, the debate between law and justice is fascinating, but I think my work here is done." She put her mug down and headed for the stairs. "I'm going to get dressed and go see Doc about a pain killer."

Nat followed her. "Are you all right?" she asked quietly.

She blinked, then laughed. "Yes. Sorry. I'm fine. We were. . ." She paused and pursed her lips. "Very enthusiastic the second and third times."

She laughed as well. "All right then." There was pause before she added. "Really? Him?"

"He has hidden depths," Syn said defensively. "And even you have to admit he's not hard on the eyes."

"No, of course. But he does read as one of those 'get off and then pass out' types."

"He was very sweet. Which I know doesn't seem possible but. . . I'm hoping to see him again."

"Just be careful, okay?"

Syn's smile was thin and a little bitter. "Oh, you know me. I'm always careful." She glanced behind Nat at the still quarreling men. "Good luck with them."

She chuckled. "Yeah. Something to be said of a surfeit of men fighting over protecting you."

"I suppose it's a bit flattering. Just make sure they don't come to blows over it. Wouldn't do to have our heroes beaten before the battle."

Nat reached out and squeezed her hand. "You want me to put on hot water for a bath?"

The other woman groaned. "Oh. That would be lovely."

"It was nice to see you smile."

She swore Syn blushed a little bit. "It was a good night," she said softly.

Voices were being raised out in the bar. Nat turned, put two fingers in her mouth and whistled. That got all of their attentions. "Can I ask you to stop fighting long enough to haul some water, please?"

They all managed to look like chastised little boys. Thor got up slowly. "I'll fetch it, Miss Natasha," he said, ever the epitome of manners.

As he went by, Steve offered, "What if I let you punch him all you want while he's in handcuffs? We could even have Stark make leg shackles."

Clint glanced over at Nat for a moment, and she gave him a quelling look. "I could live with that."

"Compromise is a wonderful thing," she said, rejoining them at the bar.


	7. Broken Arrow

The list on Tony's slate was growing with no sign of slowing down. As much as he loved the pie, he had to pause in his orders for Mrs. Hill so he could clear out the backlog. So it was a few days before he was finally satisfied with her sword. Seemed the sort of thing he ought to deliver in person.

Inside the General Store, he found Doc and the man he'd been told was the preacher. He wasn't much for church, so he hadn't gone on Sunday. They were both eating pie at the counter. As far as he knew, Mrs. Hill didn't sell that so much has traded it for favors. 

"Good morning, gentlemen.”

They both turned to look at him. Doc gave him a nod and the reverend stood and offered his hand. "You must be Mr. Stark, the smith."

Tony shook it. "I'm not really a church person."

"I won't hold it against you. Phil Coulson." He sank back into his seat. "I hear the town is keeping you busy."

"I was just going to shoe the stage horses and. . . suddenly I had customers."

"Hard to get by without a smith," Doc said. "Don't realize what you're missing till you've lost it."

"What happened to the previous smith was unfortunate," Coulson said. Tony glanced over at him, unable to parse his tone. Was that just a comment or some sort of warning?

Well, no one had ever accused Tony Stark of subtlety. Or an overabundance of good sense. "I heard he had some sort of accident when he couldn't pay his taxes?"

The man had a hell of a poker face. "That's what they say."

"Well, that does sound very unfortunate."

"It wasn't long after I got here. The reverend prior to me left rather abruptly."

"He liked the whores too much," Mrs. Hill said, coming out from the back room. "The old reverend. Got a reputation for weird behavior _with_ the whores. Pierce ran him out."

He looked over at Coulson. "And then brought you in?"

That poker face was still firmly in place. "Not personally. Though he hasn't protested my arrival or presence."

Which told him absolutely nothing. They were going to be circling each other till Tony was old and grey. Well, more grey than he was now. "What do you think of the little hit squad he keeps in his employ?"

"Killing is a sin."

Of course. Quote the bible to avoid questions. This man was starting to irritate him. "Let me guess, you conscientiously objected to the war?"

"I ministered to the dying on the battlefields. Without a gun."

"Well, I'm sure you were of great fucking comfort."

"And I spent four years sawing limbs off screaming men," Doc said from behind them. "Are we really going to do this right now?" 

"I do not have enough pie to handle a wounded soldier pissing contest," Hill said. "Take it down the street if you must."

"I'm just here to give you your order," Tony said, not taking his eyes off Coulson. 

"My sword?" She got in between him and Coulson. "Would you like some pie?"

He finally looked at her and handed her the wrapped blade. "Not today. I've lost my appetite."

She took the sword from him. "Thank you, Mr. Stark."

"You're welcome Mrs. Hill. Let me know if you need anything else."

She glanced at the others, then asked, "Will you be staying once the new driver arrives and the stage goes on?"

He glanced at Coulson again. Ten minutes ago, he have said he hadn't made up his mind yet. Staying made no sense. He was already fighting the demons of one war, he didn't need to stick around this fucked up little town and conjure more. But he heard himself saying, "I was thinking I'd stay on a spell. It's been nice to feel useful again."

"Good," she said with a half smile-- which was quite a bit for her, he'd realized. 

Feeling oddly as if he'd passed some sort of test, he nodded his goodbyes and left. Bypassing the smith, he headed straight down to the saloon and was pleased to find both the marshal and the gunslinger bellied up to the bar.

He took a seat beside them. "I think the reverend is up to something."

They both looked over at him. "As in, working for Pierce?" Barton asked.

"I don't know. He's very chummy with Hill, who I'm pretty sure doesn't work with Pierce. But they're both cagey as hell. I just had a conversation with him I'm sure meant a hell of a lot more than he was saying."

"I'm not convinced Mrs. Hill isn't up to something," Rogers said. "There's something weird about her." He glanced over at Barton. "Is there a Mr. Hill?"

"There was once," Barton replied. "He died years back. Not a nice man." 

"She does kind of have that air of a person who has seen some shit," Stark said. "And was very curious as to whether or not I was sticking around."

Barton shrugged. "A town doesn't stay a stage stop very long without a blacksmith. They go and we're cut off."

Anyone but Barton he'd have thought he was trying to take him on a guilt trip. "We? You sticking around? What happened to convincing your lady to get the hell out with you?"

"She doesn't want to abandon ship. Which I can respect. People would suffer if left behind. It's not what I wanted, but I want _her_ , so. . ." He shrugged again. The power of love was something else, Tony supposed. He remembered feeling like that. Seemed like decades ago. But that line of thinking was too painful to entertain.

"Yeah, well, I don't even have that excuse. I'm just a glutton for drama, I suppose."

Rogers took a swig of his drink. "I'm staying because this town has a sore need for some law enforcement."

"Yes. I have not yet gotten my visit and tax demand from the town overlord."

"Maybe they're waiting to see if you stay past the stage leaving."

That made a lot of sense, actually. "Maybe he'll put some orders up." He looked over at the two of them. "So, what are you two up to? I miss anything?"

"How fast can you make us some shackles?" Barton asked, giving Rogers a sideways look. Rogers smiled.

*

The men from the stage company arrived two days later. There was a flurry of activity and excitement when they did so. Nat fed them and handed over everything she'd been storing. Stark got them set up in the stage with their freshly shoed horses. They were surprised and pleased to hear that Triskelion had a new blacksmith. The Koenigs seemed quite relieved to be on their way, but paid Nat for the hospitality and were polite enough.

That night the saloon seemed busier than usual. Clint wasn't sure if it was just his imagination or if the town was letting off some steam now that things were promising to return back to normal. Well, as normal as one could expect with a new marshal settling in, a cranky, war scarred smith clanging the night away and a marksman taking up with the saloon owner.

 He sat at his spot at the bar, watching customers come and go and keeping an eye out for anyone suspicious. He'd slept most of the day in the interest of staying up all night to watch for the arsonists. He'd made it clear to Rogers that, while he'd try for capture, he was shooting them before they had a chance to hurt anyone else. That, at least, the marshal hadn't argued with. 

Nat came over to see him, and he smiled. "Am I scaring the customers?" he asked her.

"I think intimidating is a better word. It's good. The girls say they've never been treated better."

"Well. I did threaten to cut that guys hand off last week."

She smiled fondly. "That you did. I think Kate's got a bit of a crush on you for that."

"She's going to have to live with disappointment in that area."

"I think she knows." Nat leaned over the bar and kissed him. "I intimidate her."

He pulled out his pocket watch and looked at it. "I should head up soon."

Something like anger crossed her face, but he was fairly certain it was directed at Pierce, or maybe just the situation in general, and not him. "You be careful," she told him.

He reached out to take her hand. "I promise."

She ran her thumb over his knuckles. "I wish I could be up there with you."

"You going to protect me?" he asked. He realized as soon as he said it might sound mocking, and he didn't mean that, so he added, "There are very few I'd trust as well to have my back."

With a little shrug, she kissed him again. "I feel better if I can help. This is my building, my girls."

"I will keep it safe. I give you my word."

"I know," she said softly. "I trust you."

He lifted her hand and kissed it. "Don't stay up too late worrying about me. It could be a while before they strike."

Someone called for her across the way and she moved to go over. "I'll only stay up and worry about you the normal amount, then."

He leaned on the bar and watched her saunter away. Fierce protectiveness overtook him, and he had no idea how he was going to accommodate the Marshal's request to arrest people. He wanted to hurt anyone who threatened her. Anyone who even thought about it. Still, she seemed to be more or less on the marshal's side, maybe that would help stay his hand. 

He'd been pondering a while how to best arm himself for a mission like this. For a circumstance where he'd have to stop people but not kill them. "Take them alive" wasn't exactly in a sharpshooter’s repertoire. Partly, perhaps, because firing a shot from a loud rifle was a very public announcement of one's location. That afternoon, he thought of something from his youth that was absolutely perfect. 

In any case, it was time to get in place and start his watch. It was going to be a long night. 

The roof was quiet, as was the town. Even Stark had apparently gone to bed, as the smith was silent. The only light anywhere in town was a dim glow in one of the windows over at Doc's. Clint wasn't sure that man ever slept.

He could hear people moving about in the tavern for a few more hours, then even that was silent and still. Clint tugged his coat a little tighter around him and waited.

Just before dawn, when a faint silver light started to thread through the eastern sky, he spotted his prey. Two men in dark clothes were skulking around the back of the building. If they'd been a little earlier, in full darkness, it was possible someone less observant than he would have missed them. He crept to the edge of the roof and peered down at them. They were carrying jugs of kerosene. 

It occurred to him, as he nocked the arrow and slowly pulled back the bowstring, that perhaps he should have practiced at least once, to see if he was still as good at this as he had been in his youth. The Union Army hadn't been much interested in archery, which was unfortunate. Sometimes, shooting silently from a distance what just the thing.

Rogers would probably forgive him if his aim was off—but it wasn't. He shot two arrows, and had one of the arsonists pinned to the ground by the arms before the second one noticed. Clint ducked back a little as the other one looked up, and fired his gun blindly at the roof. Once. Twice. He waited to hear all six shots. Lights came on in the saloon. Clint pulled out his third arrow, and struck a match to light the tip. He leaned back over the roof. "Drop it and lay on the ground, or I’ll blow you up." 

In the glare of the flame he got a good look at the man's face. First he glared, then he seemed to realize he was straddling a few gallons of kerosene. Very slowly, the man dropped the gun and sank to his knees, putting his hand down just as a few customers and call girls arrived on scene.

Clint blew the flaming arrow out once Natasha came out to tie them with rope. A few minutes later, Rogers appeared with the proper shackles Stark had made, which was Clint's cue to come back downstairs.

He was met in the bar by Nat, Syn, Thor and a handful of others who had broken off to have their own conversations. Nat flung her arms around him when she reached him. "Well done," she murmured in his ear.

He pulled her close. "That was kind of fun."

She nuzzled at his jaw. "It was damned sexy."

"Where you watching?" he murmured.

"I couldn't sleep," she confessed. "Mostly I was listening, couldn't get a good angle on you all."

"Well. I am good at what I do."

She kissed him again, hand wandering down his chest. "I will reward the hell out of you later."

Off to his left, Rogers cleared his throat loudly. Clint looked down at Nat and said, "Later."

"I promise." She stepped away to start dispersing the crowd as he turned the Rogers.

"I have them locked up," the other man said. "I imagine we'll get a visit from the lord himself."

"Excellent bait," Clint replied. 

He glanced around the saloon, then back at Clint. "I have to ask. . . any particular reason you're suddenly carrying Indian weapons?"

Clint looked down at his bow. "They didn't invent them, you know." He looked back up. "I took it because it's silent, and guns are not."

Rogers nodded slowly. "Stealth, got it. Job well done, in any case."

"And I didn't kill either of them."

"And I want you to know I appreciate that, greatly. Gives me better bargaining chips when Pierce comes down."

"Maybe you'll finally get to see your friend."

Roger's jaw tightened. "I hope so. I haven't even had a glimpse of him since we got here. I really want to find out what the hell he's doing here."

"I hope you can save him," Clint said quietly, sincerely.

The other man offered him a thin smile. "Thanks. I appreciate it." He shook his head slowly and picked up the drink Syn had put in front of him at some point. "This is one fucked up situation."

"The war was fucked up. Life, I think, is fucked up." He glanced over at Nat. "Take whatever good you can."

"Amen to that, my friend."

"You mind I go catch a little sleep? It's been a long night."

He nodded and gestured vaguely at the stairs. "Go ahead. I got it under control."

Clint nodded, and headed towards the stairs. He passed Nat, talking to some of her girls. He put his hands on her shoulder and kissed the top of her head. "I'm going up to bed."

Smiling, she tipped her head back to look at him. "Poor thing. Going right to sleep?"

"Probably." He dropped his head so his mouth was by her ear. "But you're always welcome to wake me."

He felt her shiver a little. "I'll keep that in mind," she murmured. He kissed her ear, and then headed up the stairs. Sinking into the bed was as blissful as ever. The linens still smelled like her.

He must have slept, because he was awakened sometime later by Nat lifting the covers and sliding in next to him. Seeing he was awake, she kissed his brow. "Shh."

Clint pulled her against his body—not trying to start something, but he just wanted her near. "Told you I'd keep you safe."

She sighed softly, curling into him. "Yes, you did."

She made him feel peaceful, in a way he hadn't thought possible. At least not since the war. "I'm sorry I left you alone for so long."

There was a pause, then she pressed a kiss against his skin. "Are you going to do it again?"

"Not until the devil himself comes for me."

"Good. Then I forgive you."

*

Steve had the two henchmen locked up in his newly rebuilt jail cell. One of them whined about having been injured during their capture. He very grudgingly sent for the doctor once the morning had reached a reasonable hour. He didn't want to be accused of poorly treating his prisoners.

Instead of Banner, his nurse or companion or whatever, arrived, doctor bag in hand. "He's having a bad morning," she explained before Steve could ask. "I can stitch up just about anything non life threatening."

"Barton was pretty careful not to hit them, so I think we're talking about scrapes, bruises, or malingering." He stuck out his hand, sensing she was the sort of woman one greeted like a man. "We haven't formally met, really. Marshal Rogers. Thanks for coming."

"Amanda Newbury," she replied, shaking his hand firmly. "Nice to meet you."

He turned toward the cell. "Stand up," he called to the man who complained. "Show her your injury."

The man stood and scowled. "I said I needed a doctor. She's not a doctor."

"I'm what you got," she told him. "If you don't want me to look at it I'll go. You can get an infection, gangrene and I can come back later to cut it off."

"She'll be the one to do it," Steve said. "I hear she's faster with a saw."

"I held the record at the medical unit I worked with. Most limbs in an hour." She tilted her head and smiled at the prisoner. "Your choice."

The man looked a little green around the gills, but he rolled up his sleeve to show her some scrape. Steve watched her blow air out of her nose, and then reach through the bars to dab it with something from a glass bottle and then wrap a bandage around it once. "I think you'll live, sweetheart," she said dryly.

Steve didn't particularly feel he owed these guys respect—keeping Barton from killing or at least beating the shit out of them was plenty. So didn't bother to try and hide his laugh.

The man looked positively sulky as he rolled down his sleeve and went to sit on the cot again.

Amanda turned to Steve. "Let me know of you need anything else."

"Likewise, ma'am," he said with a smile. He paused for a moment, glancing over at the jail cell, then back at her. "Actually. . ."

Her brows lifted. "Does the other one have a splinter?"

"No, no. It's just not for their ears." He made a gesture indicating she should step out onto the porch. When they got outside, she turned to him, and he asked, "What's wrong with him? Doc?"

She shook her head. "There isn't a simple name for it. Once upon a time it would have been called an imbalance of humors. He gets in rages sometimes. Other times he's morose and can't get out of bed. A few times he's been full of nervous energy, unable to sleep or sit still. Then it passes and he's normal again."

"Did the war do it?"

"I didn't know him before the war. He says it happened, but not as frequently." She tilted her head. "Why do you ask?"

He sighed, studying the dusty street. "Pierce's gunslinger. He was—is—was my best friend. We went to war together, fought side by side. We were like brothers. We saw and did some awful things in battle. He got shot." Steve touched the inside of his wrist. "They took his hand off. It got infected, and they cut higher. They chased the infection all the way up to his shoulder, and then they stuck him in the tent with the gut wounds." The tent where they put people waiting to die. "He lived. But he was never right. He'd go days, weeks without sleeping. Fly into rages. Lock himself in his room. I scraped up all the money I could to get him a metal arm. I thought it might help. Not long after he told me he was heading west, and vanished. Turned up here, murdering people for a petty tyrant."

The nurse made a noise of sympathy. "I saw a lot of men with lost limbs. Some of them no more than boys. They all react differently. Some raged. Some grieved. A few accepted it and moved on, happy to be going home a live, if not in one piece. Chasing the wound with multiple surgeries the way you describe. . . one amputation is enough to break a man. What you describe. . . Have you heard the term 'soldier's heart?'"

He nodded. "But I had thought it was more a condition of. . . sadness, or fear. Something more like the way Mr. Stark is. I knew men like that. Not wanting to go home, not feeling able to settle if they did. Chasing or fleeing the past. Not killing people. This sort of violence. It's not—it's just not him."

She shifted, resting a shoulder on the porch post. "I am in correspondence with some of the other doctors I worked with. I could write to them for advice. I do know a few men who have reacted to the war by never really leaving it. There are nightmares, of course. Men who act out attacks in their sleep. But with others it's more. Have you ever had a sound or scent that reminded you of the war? Brought you back to a specific moment?"

He nodded slowly. "Always the strange things, too. During the stage robbery all the shooting didn't phase me, and then we got out in the mud, and for a moment it was like I was on march again. Mud."

Amanda smiled. "A few weeks ago Banner knocked a book off his desk. It hit the floor with a bang and for me, it was a cannon hit. I ducked under my chair before I thought about it." She shook her head. "In any case, for a man with soldier's heart it's possible for that sound or smell to literally make them think they're in the war again. It isn't friends and neighbors surrounding them, it's enemy soldiers. It isn't their brother or son coming on horseback but the cavalry. It's possible your friend is suffering from something like that. And Pierce has found a way to harness it."

Steve tipped his head back and looked at the sky, momentarily overcome with anger. "Maybe I should just let Barton snipe him from the saloon roof."

"You won't hear any objections from me." She touched his arm lightly. "I'll write to the others when the stage comes back through, get some advice. Get your friend away from Pierce and we'll do our best to help him."

"Thank you," he said sincerely. "He saved my life more than once. I need to help him."

"A friendly, familiar face almost always helps. Seeing you may be enough to get him away from whatever hold Pierce has on him."

"We're hoping this might draw him out."

She glanced back at the jail. "You do have half of his enforcers here. I'd be surprised if he didn't show up with the rest."

He looked her up and down. "You armed?"

Without a word she twitched her skirt up to show him a derringer strapped to her ankle. "And that's not counting my scalpels and saw."

"Good," he said. He tipped his hat. "Better get back to my charges."

"Good luck," she said. "I'm sure we'll talk later."

He watched her walk down the street, and then turned to head back inside.


	8. Cattle King

"Are you going to feed us?" one of the prisoners asked. 

"You don't look like you're starving," Steve replied.

"You can't keep us in here all day without food!"

Steve propped his feet up on his desk. "When my deputy wanders in, I'll go over to the general store and get you a can of beans."

"Each or to split?" the older one asked. He, at least, was less whiny than the other one.

He gave them a look. "If you really want your own damn cans, I will get them."

They shut up, more or less, after that. Barton strolled in about an hour later, cup of coffee still in hand. "How are our guests this morning?" he asked, barely glancing at the men in the cell.

"You nicked one of them," he replied. "He nearly lost an arm over it."

"My sincerest apologies," he said sounding completely insincere.

"I'm going to go get them some food." Steve stood, and looked at their prisoners. "Piss him off and he'll probably shoot you. I won't be here to stop him."

Barton gave a little snort and dropped into the seat Steve had vacated. "Take your time."

He went down to the general store. Mrs. Hill was behind the counter, and there were a few people inside. A small woman he vaguely recognized, and a bald, bespectacled man he didn't. The man was watching him. He picked up two cans of beans and wandered up to the counter. "Good day, Mrs. Hill."

She offered a thin smile. "Marshal. Is this all today?"

"Yes." He turned so his back was to the others, and mouthed, _Trouble?_

The smile widened. "It is a nice day," she said. "Not a cloud. That'll be four bits. These for those two who tried to burn down the saloon last night?"

"Yes. Seems I ought to feed them."

The bald man was suddenly at his side. "Did you say someone tried to burn down the saloon?"

Steve looked down at him. "Who are you?"

"Sitwell. Jasper Sitwell. I run the newspaper. I hadn't heard anything about an attempted arson."

The newspaper, as he recalled, was run by Pierce. "Marshal Rogers," he replied. "Yes, someone tried to burn down the saloon. Thankfully, they were caught before the fire had been lit."

It might have been his imagination, but he thought Sitwell started to sweat a bit at that. "Well, that's quite a story." He glanced at Hill. "I better head out. Start getting some eye witness accounts."

Hill waited until the other man had left before saying. "Well. I imagine you'll be getting that visit from Pierce, soon."

Steve gave her a sideways look. "You do hear everything, don't you?"

"There's still a few secrets in this town. Not many, though."

"I would assume Pierce has listeners equally astute."

"Several. Sitwell among them. He'll be running to tell his master right now. I'm guessing the only reason the big man hasn't been down already is that he hadn't heard it failed."

"I would have thought the lack of a giant burning building might have been a clue."

Hill shrugged. "Maybe he's too good to look at the town over his breakfast."

"He was on the roof of his house last night," said a voice from behind them. Steve turned to see the small woman—he thought she was the school teacher—coming closer. "I have a telescope. I use it to chart the stars, but sometimes I look at the town, and Mr. Pierce and some of his people were out on the widow's walk on top of his house, up until about dawn."

"Miss Foster is our school teacher," Hill explained to Steve before he could ask. “Miss Foster, have you met the Marshal?"

"I have not. Pleased to make your acquaintance."

She bobbed a little curtsey. "Likewise."

"You said Mr. Pierce was watching the town."

"Oh yes. I'm certain he noticed the saloon didn't catch."

Steve tilted his head. "That's very interesting."

She smiled widely. "Hope it helps."

"Would you be willing to. . .keep an eye on things over there? With your telescope?"

Her eyes widened. "Well, it just so happens there is some _fascinating_ meteor activity in that part of the sky. So it's likely I'll have my 'scope pointed that direction often."

"Thank you," Steve said. He tipped his hat. "Mrs. Hill, Miss Foster." They said their goodbyes and he gathered up his beans, taking his leave.

Barton was right where he'd left them and looked rather amused that he had, in fact, brought just canned beans back for the prisoners. "They've been little angels."

It annoyed him that they had a constant audience. He needed to talk to Barton. He opened the cans and passed them through the bars, ignoring complaints about lack of utensils. "I was thinking we may need a larger guard shift for the jail."

"If we're going to have occupants, yeah, probably. Anyone you have in mind?"

"Thor is probably the best candidate, if he's sober. Sam Wilson, too."

Barton nodded. "Reverend Coulson looks like he can handle himself, too."

"Not sure recruiting the reverend is a great idea. Doesn't Stark think he's up to something?"

"I think Stark might be a little paranoid. Though he probably is up to something—I can't recall ever having met a preacher I thought could possibly take me in a fight. There's something we're missing, clearly. But I'm pretty sure it's not Pierce. Mrs. Hill trusts him." Barton paused. "She could probably take a shift."

"That I believe," Steve agreed. He tipped his head back, thinking. "The barber could do it, but might not want to get involved."

"Couldn't hurt to ask."

"Right. It'll be a start, anyway." He glanced at the prisoners. "I'd like to try and meet tonight. There are some things to discuss."

Barton nodded slowly. "How much privacy do you need? I can ask Natasha to borrow her office."

"That should be fine."

He pulled his watch out to glance at it. "Thor will probably be stopping by for lunch soon. I can go over and talk to him about guarding and secure a time in the office." 

Steve nodded, and motioned for Barton to give him back his seat. When the other man had gone, he looked over at the prisoners. "Enjoying your lunch?"

"What do you think?" the whiny one muttered.

*

Nat couldn't help but think they were a rather motley crew or saviors for the town. Clint had come by earlier to ask about using her office for a meeting with Marshal Rogers. He had ended up inviting Thor, as he was being recruited into helping watch the prisoners.

She'd mentioned it to Banner when he'd come in for a late supper and he'd told Stark on his way back to the doctor's office. And then, just before they'd all started to file in the back, Loki had arrived and signaled Syn he needed to talk to her. So she had taken him up the front stairs and down the back ones to sneak into the office with them.

 The office didn't have nearly enough seating for all of them, even with a few chairs stolen from the kitchen. Thor was standing, leaning on the wall. Syn was perched on top of the safe, Loki in front of her on a spindly chair. She leaned on him, chin on top of his head, arms around his neck, far more at ease than Nat would ever have expected anyone to be with that man. Clint had taken her desk chair and gamely let her flop in his lap when she'd glared at the usurping. Everyone else was in kitchen chairs or on the floor. It was rather cramped.

"The prisoners remain unclaimed, and unresponsive to questioning," Rogers said.

"How intensely did you question them?" Thor asked. 

"I didn't get out the thumbscrews, if that's what you're asking," he replied.

"Maybe we should," Clint muttered. "I don't think people rat on their boss just because you ask nicely."

"People don't tell the truth under torture," Loki said quietly from the other side of the room. "They tell you anything and everything to make it stop. It's useless information." Syn's arms tightened on him and she dropped a kiss on top of his head.

"Do you have any idea why Pierce hasn't sent for them?" Rogers asked.

"From what I overheard and what Sitwell came to tell me, Pierce is disavowing any knowledge of the arson. He won't incriminate himself by retrieving Ward and Garret."

"Does he suspect you tipped us off?" Nat asked and Syn smiled a little, apparently grateful for the concern.

Loki shook his head. "I don't think so. He seems to have assumed the men were careless and Barton just heard them."

"He may be punishing them by leaving them in jail, too," Syn added and Loki inclined his head in agreement.

"I know he watched everything last night," Rogers said. "The schoolteacher has a telescope. She's going to watch him for us and report anything funny."

"Why are you involving her?" Thor demanded.

Everyone turned to look at him. "She volunteered. What's it to you?"

Thor crossed his arms and puffed his chest a bit. "It seems ill-advised to add anyone else to this. Especially someone who can't defend herself."

"He fancies her," Loki drawled. Never had he sounded more like a little brother. Especially when Thor aimed a glare his way.

"Perhaps you should go stake your claim," Stark said. "No one in their right mind messes with the woman of a man like yourself." He sounded serious and not mocking, and Nat had to agree. Thor was the tallest man in town by a couple of inches, and built like the Vikings he was descended from. The bar brawls were about men being drunk and stupid, and she'd noticed long ago he made an effort not to hurt anyone. If Thor ever took one of those fights seriously, both Doc and the Preacher would be busy, and nobody would ever call him Johnny Reb again.

"Men do seem to respect that," Syn said. "This one's only bought me three times and now none of the other men will look at me."

Loki tipped his head back to look at her. "I didn't know that. I had no desire to impact your livelihood."

Her mouth twisted up into a crooked smile. "Then you should come by more often."

Thor shook his head, but Nat thought he looked a bit pleased at his brother now being part of the group. "Miss Foster's reputation in this town is impeccable. I would only tarnish it with my attentions."

"This isn't plantation society anymore," Loki said. "It's the frontier. Triskelion's two most prominent ladies are a Madam and a woman who beat her husband to death with a cast iron skillet. Though he did really deserve it."

Rogers's brows went up at that. Nat said, "Don't ever break Mrs. Hill's nose," in explanation.

"My point," Loki continued. "Is that her reputation will mean very little to anyone who wished to take advantage. Having you in her corner would discourage just about everyone from looking at her sideways."

Thor made a face. "Can we go back to planning things?"

"Let's," Rogers agreed. "Barton and I have recruited enough trustworthy people to watch the prisoners round the clock. I can wire the marshal's office and get them taken away, but that will take a while. For now, we need some idea of what Pierce is planning."

"I expect he will send the Soldier next," Loki said. "Though after who, I can't say. Rogers, you are likely his primary problem now, but I'm not sure he's bold enough to gun down a Marshal. I'll tell him you've wired for transport of the prisoners. The outside being involved makes him nervous, he won't want to give cause for more marshals to show up." 

"If he was watching he knows it was Barton who stopped his men," Stark said. "I vote he'll go for him. Or Natasha. Or both. One failed attempt isn't going to deter him. He had a goal and he'll go after it until he gets it or it's obvious it's impossible." He shrugged. "That's what I'd do."

Rogers nodded. "Loki, please report to Pierce that I have wired notice I have officially deputized Mr. Barton."

Clint straightened. "Hey, I never said I'd—"

"I'm not actually doing it. We're just pretending I did. Might as well use our double agent as we can. Now you're a lawman, too. Narrows the target."

"And turns Natasha into bait?"

"i'm fine with being bait," she said, putting a soothing hand on his arm. "I was already in his sites."

"He's got to know I'd come after him," Clint said. "Which then gives him an excuse to kill me. How neat."

"If we paint targets on you two we can focus our energies on keeping you safe, rather than guessing and being taken unawares."

"Any ideas how we do that without getting killed?"

"Whoever isn't guarding the prisoners or asleep is guarding you. Neither of you goes anywhere alone. Loki will report back to Syn on anything he hears about plans." Rogers looked at him. "Anyone else in the organization you think might be willing to turn?"

"Not with enough certainty to risk being outed. He kills me and you're blind."

"No one wants you to get killed," Nat said, noting Syn's arms tightening on him.

"Right," Rogers agreed immediately. "I'm just trying to cover all our bases. If we can't get anymore allies, I say we try to keep all of Pierce's spies busy except Loki. I want all his information coming through him. That means distracting Sitwell and anyone else we know is working for him."

 "I can handle Sitwell," Banner said. Nat had almost forgotten he was there. "Man's a hypochondriac and has a crush on Amanda. Next time he comes through with a splinter we can lay him up for a few days at least."

"He visits the saloon," Nat said. "I can see the girl he picks makes sure that splinter happens."

"Do we know for sure which side the Preacher is on?" Stark asked.

"His own?" Nat offered.

"Not Pierce's," Banner said. "I've spoken with him more than most of you. I don't know what his agenda is, but he's against Pierce. Which would, by default, make him on ours."

"Pierce seems to consider him neutral, as far as I can tell," Loki said. "He ran the last one out for unseemly behavior."

"There could be an advantage to keeping him neutral," Stark said. "The quicker we draw lines the quicker this becomes a proper war."

"We are already at war," Rogers said.

"And let's leave the non combatants somewhere to go."

"Fair enough."

"How long do we wait before we go after him?" Clint asked.

Rogers crossed his arms over his chest. "Loki will spread his information tomorrow. Hopefully Sitwell can be taken out of the picture in the next day or two. Once that's in place I wouldn't give him more than three or four days before he makes a move. If there's no movement or plans of movement," he added with a nod to Loki, "By then, then we regroup and plan our own attack."

Clint nodded. "I can live with that."

"Good." The Marshal scanned the group. "Any questions?"

"Not a question," Stark said. "But I am working on some things that might be useful if this gets uglier."

Rogers's brows went up and Nat felt Clint shift in attention. "Like what?" she asked.

"Defensive equipment. Artillery." He inclined his head at Clint. "Steel arrowheads."

"You're my new favorite person," Clint said sincerely.

"Can I come by and take a look tomorrow?" Rogers asked, obviously interested.

"Of course. I have something just for you, actually."

He smiled, though he looked a little cautious. "Really?"

Stark shrugged. "It was on my slate."

Rogers blinked in confusion a moment, then leaned back and started to laugh. Stark grinned rather smugly in response. Nat looked at Clint but he seemed just as confused at the in-joke as she was.

She patted Clint on the arm and stood. "I probably should be getting back to the saloon. "Or is there more?"

Calming a bit, Rogers shook his head. "No, that was it. Everyone keep in contact if you see or hear anything funny. Otherwise, go about as normal. As far as any of us know, Ward and Garret were acting alone."

*

Tony had come to find a certain amount of peace working the forge. He'd never been one for getting lost in this thoughts, especially after the war. His thoughts were rarely a pleasant place to be. But working on the metal didn't allow for getting properly lost. It required just enough focus and attention to keep him occupied, but not so much that he couldn’t relax and get into the rhythm of it. The orders on his slate continued to fill up, but the initial rush was done with and he felt no pressure to hurry through anything.

He had his side project, of course, but he tended to work on that in the evenings, when no one was likely to wander in. During the day, he got lost in the mundane.

He had no idea how long the man was standing there before he finally noticed.

Thrusting the bridle he was working on into water to cool it, he put his tools down and wiped his hands. "Can I help you?"

He strolled in, in his fancy suit and hat. "There's a fee for operating a business in my town, Mr. Stark."

Tony smiled despite himself. "Mr. Pierce, I presume. I've heard a lot about you."

"Likewise. You are Anthony Stark of the New York Starks, are you not? Son of Howard Stark, proprietor of the Stark Arms Company?"

The smile faded. "You're pretty well informed yourself, aren't you?"

"I make it a point to be. I like knowing what of note is going on in my town. When a missing millionaire takes up residence in an empty blacksmith shop and begins hammering horseshoes, I find that. . . of note."

"Man has a skill and finds people in need of it and willing to pay for it. . . My father would have called it a sin not to oblige."

"For an ordinary yokel, perhaps."

"I assure you, I'm just as ordinary as the next yokel, last name notwithstanding."

"If you are that ordinary, I expect you'd stay out of whatever shenanigans may be going on."

He shrugged easily. "I'm just tinkering. Got a lot of orders to fill." He gestured to the slate, fortunately full of mundane requests. "If I wanted politics and rivalries I'd have stayed in New York."

"That's good to hear. I suppose if that's the case, I have no cause to mention to anyone I know in New York that you've turned up here."

Oh good, threats. That would make this much easier. "I'm sure you have far more important things to do with your time, Mr. Pierce." Tony reached for his lockbox. "I believe you mentioned a fee?"

"Ah, yes. Ten percent of your take, off the top."

"I haven't been keeping very thorough records." He rummaged in the box, doing some fast mental math. He counted out a couple bills and some coin and held it out. "That's about right. I'll be sure to pick up a ledger for better accounting next month."

Pierce nodded. "I generally know when someone is cheating me."

"Any good businessman does." Egomaniacal despots tended to be a little blinder. _Poker-face, Tony, you're doing great._

He tucked the money in his pocket. "Pleasure doing business with you," he said, and turned and strolled out.

"Any time," he muttered, watching Pierce walk away. He made a point of going back to work, so the older man would hear the clank of the hammer following him.


	9. Pale Rider

An hour later Tony walked into the general store to find Mrs. Hill behind the counter. "I have those nails you wanted," he told her. "I don't suppose you have any pie left?"

"You're in luck," she said. She set a plate on the counter and looked him up and down. "You all right?"

"Just fine. Had a rude visitor earlier." He picked up the fork she'd set next to the plate. "You have any ledger books I could buy? Apparently, I'm going to need to start taking better track of my income."

"Ah, the tax collector has finally made his rounds?"

"Yep. We had a nice chat."

"I'm sorry," she said, sounding sincere. She went back into what he imagined was her office, and returned with a leather bound book. "It's good you can keep a ledger. Sousa, the previous blacksmith, could barely read or write, let alone do math. He and Pierce got into a dispute about how much he owed. Pierce could just make up whatever amount he wanted." 

Tony sighed, pie no longer tasting as good as it had. "I suppose if anyone had tried to help him they would have earned the wrath from on high?" Hill gave a little nod. "I should have gotten on the damn stage," Tony muttered under his breath.

"I don't know why any of you stayed. Well, I know why Barton stayed, foolish though I think it is. But you and the Marshal. . . I don't know what the hell you're doing."

"Marshal has an unhealthy savior complex, if you ask me," Tony said. "Me? I guess I just can't run from trouble without finding more. My question, Mrs. Hill, and no disrespect meant, is whose side are you on?"

She looked at him for a moment, then inclined her head. "Follow me." She held open the little swing gate so he could come behind the counter. "I got married before I was old enough to have an opinion," she said, and he followed her into her office. "He was a mean man, my husband. He hurt me for a long time, and I never told anyone. I didn't know any better." She knelt on the floor, beside a trap door with an iron lock. "Then he went to war, and got used to being on my own." She undid the lock. "He came home worse than he left. Drunk, angry, violent. Broke my ribs, broke my nose. But I'd decided I wasn't going to live the rest of my life under the thumb of a bully." She heaved the door up, revealing stairs descending into a cellar. "So I bashed his head in." She beckoned at the cellar, indicating Tony should go down there. 

He eyed the stairwell, then her. "Was that story supposed to make me trust you and go in the dark hole?"

"Depends on whether you plan on breaking my nose." She climbed down the ladder herself, apparently leaving him to his curiosity. 

_Curiosity killed the cat._ He'd heard that from his mother probably everyday growing up. Usually because he'd managed to hurt himself while trying to figure out some puzzle or another. He'd tried to heed the warning, for her sake, at least. Until one day he'd said the phrase to the girl he was courting. And she'd grinned that wide, sunshine smile of hers and said, "But satisfaction brought him back."

Tony shrugged and started down the ladder.

It had probably been a root cellar at some point, storage for vegetables and other things that needed to stay cool. Now the shelves were lined with weapons. Guns of different sizes and vintages. Axes, maces, the swords he'd made and assumed would be decorative. A couple of indian bows and a stack of arrows. Boxes and boxes of bullets and barrels of black powder. Off to one side there were the disassembled pieces of what looked like a Gatling gun.

It wasn't a cellar. It was an armory.

"Figured this bully needed a bigger frying pan."

He walked over and picked up one of the arrows, then bent to poke at the pieces of the Gatling. Then he looked up at Hill. "Ma'am, we've been having some meetings in the saloon I think you might want to start attending."

"So you are up to something then?" she asked.

"Oh, yeah. Marshal came here looking for his friend, who happens to be Pierce's gunman. We've got Loki spying for us, and are trying to force Pierce to send said gunman after Barton and Miss. Natasha so Rogers can talk some sense into him."

"I didn't start this. I mean, I'm not just piling weapons in my cellar on my own. I'm just the only survivor of the original resistance."

"I heard about Fury."

"Sousa, too. And others. Most of them left. Out of fear or to be secretly dumped on the prairie, I don't know." 

Maybe it would be simpler to just burn the town and salt the earth. "Well. Marshal's a pretty good strategist. And Barton could hit a fly off the water tower. Plus we got an inside man. I'm not much of a betting man, but I like our odds." He picked up an axe and twirled it. "I know guys like Pierce. We start pecking away at his empire he'll crumble."

"I hope so." She sighed. "Let me know when your next meeting is. I'll be there. And if any of your people need weapons. . ."

"Barton will be all over those arrows, I'm sure. But I'll pass on the message.” He looked at her seriously. "Thanks."

"Took me a while to figure out if you were trustworthy," she said.

He nodded. "Lot of that going around. What's your read on the preacher?"

"He doesn't work for Pierce. I'm sure of that. Asked way too many questions about him. But. . . have you ever seen a reverend carry a gun before? He does. Well hidden, but I've seen it."

"Marshal said he never met a preacher he thought could take him in a fight. I'm not surprised he's carrying." He blew out a breath. "I suppose 'not on Pierce's side' is good enough for now. Not sure having a third color on the board does us any good, though."

"I didn't want to broach the topic on my own," she said. "In case I was wrong." 

"Rogers seems content to leave him in the dark for now. I think if he's a true neutral party he might help protect anyone caught in the crossfire." Tony put the axe down. "Guess we'll see how things pan out."

"I know this isn't your fight. But thank you."

He shrugged. "I don't like bullies much either. Especially when they come after me."

She smiled at him. "The ledger's on the house."

Chuckling, he nodded. "Much obliged."

*

It was a sunny day, and so seemed a good time for Clint to teach the saloon girls how to shoot. Some were decent, most were terrible, and all of them whined about being awake and outside at the ungodly hour of ten AM. 

Natasha was watching from the back porch. He didn't want her coming too far out and presenting a target for a sharpshooter. They needed trouble to come in person.

"I just don't like it," said Syn, his current student, who fell into the "decent shot" category. "It's heavy, it hurts my hand, and may or may not be blowing out my eardrums." She handed him his revolver back. 

"I don't think you'll like the shotgun noise any better." Though he did empathize. He had sensitive ears himself.

"Don't suppose you'd let me use your bow?" she asked.

He stared at her in surprise. "You know how to shoot a bow and arrow?"

Something odd crossed her face, but she pointed and said, "Let me use it and we'll see."

When he turned toward the house, Nat had already gone to get it and a handful of arrows from her office. He shrugged and took them, handing them over to Syn. "The draw may be more than you can handle, but I can make—" he didn't even finish the sentence before she'd nocked an arrow and let it loose. It buried neatly in the fence rail where he'd lined up cans as targets, just below the center can. 

She loosed the next three in rapid succession, each directly beneath one of the cans. Nat and the other girls milling about let up a ragged cheer.

"I spent some time with an Indian tribe," Syn said, offering the bow back. "You'd be surprised what men are willing to teach a helpless little girl."

"I. . . will get you a bow of your own," Clint said.

"Thank you," she said sweetly and sauntered back up to the house. 

Nat patted her arm as she passed her, then grinned at Clint. "You should have seen your face."

Darcy appeared in the doorway behind Nat, wrapped in a shawl. "Hey. Didn't get a chance to tell you guys last night. Mr. Sitwell has been dealt with."

Nat turned to look at her. "What did you do?"

"Left a few pins in my hair. Sure enough, he stabbed a finger real good. Didn't even want to finish up before pulling his trousers up and running off to the Doc."

That got a snort of laughter from Clint. "Perfect. Since you're up. . ." He gestured at the cans. "Shooting lesson."

"Oh, I don't need lessons."

"Everyone is getting them."

Darcy heaved an exasperated sigh and Nat waved a hand. "Just show him."

The girl shrugged and held a hand out for his revolver. Mildly suspicious, he handed it over. She took a handful of steps closer to the targets - which was still several feet farther than he'd had the other girls stand - and lined herself up. She stood with the revolver in one hand, the other tucked behind her back, like a duelist. Then she cleanly hit the far left target. Clint’s eyebrows went up, and she proceeded to empty the cylinder, knocking the cans down one by one. 

He cleared his throat. "Point taken."

"Four brothers," she told him, holding the revolver to him butt first. "I can spit really far, too."

"I don't need a demonstration of that thanks."

She shrugged and wandered back into the saloon. Nat was grinning again. "If the saloon doesn't work out I'm thinking of starting up a side show."

"We'd do great with target shooting."

"I'm fairly sure Syn can hit a moving target. Darcy's more of a trick."

"Will you be the ringleader?" he asked with a grin.

"Of course. I do know how to work a crowd."

"I think I would enjoy seeing that." He leaned in to kiss her just as he heard the crack and something whistle by. He lifted his head to see the bullet hole in the doorframe. Nat grabbed him by the front of his shirt and yanked, pulling them both down to the porch floor, half in the door.

Another shot hit the door itself as they crawled inside and Clint kicked it closed. "God damn it. So much for a couple of days."

Syn and Darcy came running into the kitchen, Syn took one look at the hole in the door and cursed, leaping to the kitchen window and yanking the curtain closed. "Should I get the Marshal?"

"Go. You're the least likely to get shot of anyone in here." If the other townsmen who came to the brothel knew she was Loki's, Pierce knew it too. She nodded and went running out of the room.

"Where were the shots from?" Nat asked.

"East. She'll have cover from the buildings, though he will probably move."

"No chance he'll just give up and go away?"

He turned and gave her a look. "No."

"Girl can dream," she muttered.

There were several minutes of tense silence. Darcy had gone off to corral the other girls and keep them away from the windows. Clint listened intently, breathing slow to keep his heart rate down, alert for any sign of movement.

Eventually Rogers came in from the front, with a rifle and revolver. "Where's Syn?" Nat asked.

"Sent her to get Stark and warn the Doc what was happening. Figured she was safest on the street."

"Two shots fired at us while outside," Clint said. "Nothing since I closed the door."

"I doubt he'll fire blindly," Rogers said. "Your arm's bleeding," he commented, causing Clint to look down. 

It didn't hurt until he looked at it, but there was a small piece of wood buried in his skin. "Lovely."

Rogers looked over at Nat. "Are there any other doors besides this one and the front?"

"There's outside steps and a door on the second floor in the alley," she replied, pointing.

The marshal looked back at Clint. "That's where he'll come in."

"You think he's coming _in_?"

"He's not going to be able to starve you out. Not without shooting everyone trying to come in or our, including Syn, whom I'm betting he has orders not to touch. Only options are to come in or go home having failed. What do you think is more likely?"

"Right. Okay. How are you with close quarters combat? It's not really my thing."

"Not my favorite thing, but I can do it. Not thrilled about the number of civilians we have on hand."

"Does this building have a cellar?" Clint asked Nat over his shoulder.

"Yes, the root cellar. Trap door is over there." She crawled towards the door and whistled a low, two note tune and a moment later the other girls started to file in.

Clint checked his gun and growled. "Darcy emptied it and my ammo is outside. We were having shooting lessons."

There were gunshots outside, and then the saloon door swung open and Stark stumbled in, carrying a box. "Jesus, it's fucking Bull Run out there. I can't even see who's shooting."

"It's got to be Bucky," Rogers said. "Could you tell the direction?"

Stark shook his head and put the box down, flipping the lid. "I'm guessing he was just trying to warn me off. He could have hit me if he was as good as everyone says." He pulled something large and round from the box. "This is for you, Marshal."

Rogers laughed a little, reaching out to take it from him. "Well. This will almost certainly come in handy."

Clint stared at it. "Is that a shield?"

"It is," Stark said. "He asked for one."

"I was mostly kidding," Rogers said, sliding his arm through the leather strap on the back. "But I'm not going to turn down cover at a time like this." He glanced at Stark. "Got anything Barton can use? He's out of ammo."

"I brought ammo, more guns, and arrows."

Clint pulled the box closer to browse. "You any good with any of these?"

"I survived the war all right," Stark said, sounding grim.

Rogers glanced in the box. "Where did you get all of this? I know you're not making Smith and Wessons in the forge."

Stark gave a crooked grin. "Mrs. Hill is full of surprises."

"That's very interesting," Rogers commented. 

They moved behind the bar, which was probably the best cover in there. Nat crawled back to them, and crouched beside him. "They're all in the cellar. Darcy offered to come up and help, but I thought with Mr. Stark and Marshal here, we were fine."

"I'm kicking myself for not keeping my Henry down here. Just hope our friend doesn't go through the rooms and find it."

"I'm sure Pierce got him one of his own," Rogers said. "And shouldn't she be in the cellar, too?"

Nat was now rummaging in Stark's box of goodies. "Reckon I'm as good a shot as you are, Marshal." She pulled out a lightweight Schofield, held it at arm's length to test sight and weight, then started loading it.

"She's also better at hand-to-hand combat. I've seen her take down a guy twice—" he cut off abruptly. "Someone's on the stairs."

They all tensed. Nat quietly snapped her cylinder back in place and shifted to crouch on the balls of her feet. Marshal moved his shield in front of him and slowly moved down the length of the bar so he could peek around the edge. The second floor door opened, and they could all hear footsteps on the floor above them.

Stark leaned over. "So we're supposed to not kill him, right?"

"That's the goal," Rogers said.

"What about winging him? Doc's on his way, right? Or at least the nurse."

"They're waiting, but I didn't think they should be underfoot," Rogers replied. 

The footsteps were almost to the stairs. "What's the plan?" Stark asked.

Rogers frowned at the steps, then his shield. "Miss Natasha. Head out through the kitchen and go up the side stairs, flank him from behind. Barton, find a hiding place you can snipe from. I'll go out and draw his attention. Stark, stay here and back me up. Only shoot if it's a last resort."

"Are you going to try and talk him down?" Stark asked, his tone indicated he thought Rogers was nuts.

"I've known him since we were in short pants. Yes, I'm going to try to talk him down. I am going to do it from behind a shield, however." He watched Nat disappear through the kitchen doors and turned his attention to the stairs again.

"Going around the back end of the bar by the doors. I can see the stairs from there," Clint said. "Good luck."

"Thanks," Rogers replied. He stayed where he was while Clint moved to the other end and got in position. A set of legs appeared at the top of the stairs and slowly started down.

When they were halfway down Rogers called out. "Bucky?"

The man stilled. There was a long moment of tense silence. Then, "Steve?"

Very slowly, Rogers eased himself out from behind the bar, moving where he could be seen. "It's me, Buck."

The other man came slowly down the stairs and into view. He looked like he was in desperate need of a shave and a good meal. The way men looked after a long battle. "You shouldn't be here. There are enemies here."

Clint watched the lawman's shoulders slump a little. But when he spoke his voice was calm and reassuring. "I know, buddy. But I have some friends with me. We can help you get safe."

"I have people I have to. . . I have to kill. Enemies. If I don't I won't get my medicine."

"If you need medicine we can get it for you," Rogers said. Clint was starting to hear an undercurrent of rage in his tone. "Who told you to kill people? Mr. Pierce?"

"We thought the war was over, Steve, but it's not."

Clint could see the hem of Natasha's dress at the top of the stairs as she crept closer.

"I know that's how it seems, Bucky. But Mr. Pierce isn't a nice man. He's been lying to you." Rogers gave a little gesture with his hand, warning Nat off for the moment.

He shook his head. "I can hear the cannons."

"There's no cannons, Buck. We're in a saloon out west. It's just you and me and my friends. The people Pierce told you to kill are my friends, they're good people. Trust me."

The other man faltered. "I don't—I can't—I can't tell what's real. I have a mission and I— Why are you _here_?"

"Buck-"

"No!" He threw out a hand as if to shove Rogers's words away. Then he reached for his gun.

Several things happened then. Stark stood up over the bar, gun at the ready. Rogers called out to his friend and for the rest of them to stop. The saloon door opened and crack and the head of an arrow peeked through.

 And at the top of the steps, Nat threw herself at Bucky. She grabbed his wrist and slammed it against the bannister, knocking the gun out of his hand. Then she reached up and wrapped an arm around the man's neck and her legs around his waist, yanking back to squeeze his air supply.

He wasn't in the best of shape, clearly, and it didn't take long for him to go down. Nat threw her weight so they fell up and not down the stairs, but they slid a few steps before she caught one of the balusters and stopped them. Everyone dashed for the staircase at once.

Rogers and Stark hauled Bucky off of her and carried him down to lay him on the barroom floor. Clint dodged them and took the steps two at a time to help Nat up. She rubbed the small of her back with a little wince and a wry smile. "Ow."

He ran his hands over her back, though her ribs were impossible to feel through the corset. "You all right? Nothing broken?"

"I'm fine. Just bruised. Stairs aren't the ideal place for a take down but I didn't think I could wait any longer."

"You did good," he said, eye searching her face. "Even if you did risk breaking your own neck."

"And you could have gotten shot. Or Rogers or Stark. Or even Syn if she'd come any farther through the door." The last sentence was said louder and aimed over his shoulder. He glanced down to see the nurse crouching over Bucky while Stark, Rogers and Syn hovered nearby. She'd acquired a bow and quiver from somewhere.

He looked back at Nat and she smiled. "Lots of risk going around," she continued. "I took the least violent action I could."

Amanda stood up after a moment and came to the base of the stairs. "They're carrying him back to Doc's. Any injuries?" he asked the two of them.

"You should look at his arm," Nat said immediately.

Clint glanced down at, surprised at how much blood was on his shirt. "It's a splinter."

"Bullshit," Nat said.

Amanda reached over, pulled out a chair from a nearby table and gestured to it. Nat nudged him when he didn't move.

He sighed and sat in the chair, rolling up his sleeve and laying his arm on the table. He watched Rogers and Stark carry the unconscious man out the door. Nat made a little noise when the wound was exposed and Amanda bent close to examine it. She rummaged in her bag and used some cloth to wipe at the blood. Pain lanced up his arm at the touch.

 "I need you to come down to the office so I can clean and stitch that," she said in a very no-nonsense tone. "That's more than just a splinter."

He looked down at it, admitting that it was a rather large piece of wood, embedded quite a ways in. "Now?"

She crossed her arms and glared. "Do you like having two arms?"

"Right." He stood up, and looked over to see Nat had gone to let the girls out of the cellar. "Going to Doc's about the splinter," he called.

"Good!" she yelled back.

"I'll send her down when she's done calming everyone down," Syn offered.

"I'll be fine," he said. "I don't need my hand held for a stitching."

She shrugged. "Maybe she'd like to do the holding." That made him smile, and he followed Amanda out the door.


	10. Tombstone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's late, I know a lot of you like to wake up to a new chapter. My sleep schedule is really out of whack this week and I passed out before 11 last night.

When they got to the office Banner was strapping Bucky down to a bed and Rogers was fussing about the restraints.

"We have no idea what mindset he'll be in when he wakes up," the doctor was explaining. "I can attest from personal experience the ties aren't painful or damaging."

"You want to be able to talk to him when he wakes," Clint said. "Not have to fight him again."

"When we're sure he's not a danger to us or himself we can untie him," Banner finished.

Amanda had pulled up a chair next to Clint and was cleaning off his wound. "It's going to hurt pulling this out. Do you want a hit of something before I start?"

"Whiskey isn't that good a painkiller," he replied.

"She meant opium," the doctor said over his shoulder.

"Medicine," Rogers muttered. "I bet that's what he meant."

Banner looked up. "What medicine?"

"He said he had to kill his enemies or he wouldn't get his medicine."

Banner and Amanda exchanged a look. "That would explain how he's been keeping him docile between missions," she offered, reaching for some tools. "Might complicate his recovery."

"There were three amputations," Rogers said. "And then he was in the gut-shot tent for a while. They gave him a lot of morphine. When I got home he still had it, or laudanum. Said his arm hurt. The doctors said that was normal, and it would help him sleep. But that was. . . years ago."

"It's easy to become dependent on it. To feel you need it to get through the day." Banner spoke like he had personal experience here, too. "Letting go of that reassurance. That crutch. Can be extremely difficult. Especially after years of abuse."

"Are you saying there's no hope?" Rogers asked, anger clouding his face.

"I wouldn't say no hope. Amanda helped me, I imagine she can help him. It will just take time. And we'll need to keep him away from Pierce while we do it."

Amanda had a grip on the wood with a pair of forceps. "Last chance for painkiller," she told Clint, as if he hadn't heard anything going on behind her.

"I'm good, thanks," he said dryly.

She smiled. "Now would be a good time for some of that sniper breathing then," she said. That was pretty much all the warning he got before she pulled the wood out in one smooth motion. Pain shot up his arm, and for a moment the room spun. Vomiting right now would be really undignified. It was a damn splinter.

Then slim, cool fingers wrapped around the hand on his good arm. He looked up to see Nat there, crouched beside his chair. She smiled when he looked her way. He met her eyes and let her steady him. The pain receded to an aching throb now that Amanda was cleaning it.

Nat took long, slow breaths through her nose, held them, then breathed out just as slow. He felt her squeeze his hand in a rhythm. One-two-three-four. Instinctively, he breathed with her and before he knew it Amanda had stitched him and was wrapping a bandage around his arm.

"Thank you," he said to one or both of them, feeling more than a little embarrassed.

Nat grinned and squeezed his hand again.

"Keep it clean and dry and come back tomorrow for a dressing change," Amanda said brusquely. "So I can check for infection."

"Thank you," he said again. He glanced over at Bucky. "Good luck with him."

She gave a thin smile. "Yes. I think you were my easy patient today."

He stood up, and Nat did as well. She looped her arm through his good one. "You sure you're okay?" he asked her quietly.

"I"m fine," she assured him. "Nothing a good night's sleep won't fix."

"Take tonight off," he said as they walked back to the saloon. "Syn and I will handle the bar."

"The girls were discussing shutting down entirely for the night. They're a bit shaken by the gunman."

He leaned over to kiss her temple. "Can't say I'd object to that."

"Figured it was probably a good idea. Might keep Pierce guessing as to what happened." She leaned into him. "I'm guessing Syn might sneak off to see Loki if we do keep shuttered."

"That's a bit dangerous, isn't it?"

"I suppose if Pierce found out they were more than client and whore he might start to get suspicious about where Loki's loyalties lie. But I doubt that's where his focus will be tonight. And Syn can sneak around undetected almost as well as you can."

"They are young and in love," he said.

"I don't know if either of them count as young anymore. But I suspect the latter is true, yes." She wound her arm through his. "Love causes all manner of foolishness."

He looked at the bandage on his arm, thought of the quiet little town in Pennsylvania where nobody was shooting up the saloon—or anything else for that matter. The life he'd been planning before she wrote him back. "I suppose it does."

As if she read his mind, she dropped a little kiss on his good arm. "What are your thoughts on a late afternoon nap?"

"I think that sounds like heaven."

*

He couldn't hear the cannons anymore.

The last thing he remembered was the cannons firing. The smoke and dirt clouding his vision. It was gone now and he was lying somewhere soft and sweet smelling. Maybe he'd finally died.

He'd hoped death, at least, would keep his arm from hurting.

There were voices somewhere off to his left. He recognized one of them.

"I still don't think this is a good idea," the familiar voice said.

"We have limited options," replied a calm female voice. "He'll be looking for him and the infirmary is the first place he'll look. Then the saloon or jail. Who would suspect an innocent nurse of housing an unstable gunman?"

"If you get hurt, I'll never forgive myself."

"Your concern is touching, but this is not my first violent patient. I'll be fine."

He wouldn't hurt a woman. He wanted to tell the voices that.

But he was supposed to kill one, wasn't he? The one with red hair. _She's just a whore_ , his commander had told him. _They don't count. You want your medicine, don't you?_

He needed his medicine. He tried to move, to get up, but his arms wouldn't move.

A moment later, light fingers touched his arm. "Bucky, it's okay."

He yanked at the restraints, panic setting in. They'd taken his metal arm off, and leather wrapped his right wrist. He got his eyes open, and faces hovered over him.

The woman was unfamiliar. Not a redhead. Dark brown hair was pulled back in a tight bun. Not his mission

He knew the man. "Steve?"

"I'm here," he replied. "You remember me?"

"Of course I remember you. No forgetting that ugly mug of yours."

That made Steve smile. "I've been looking for you everywhere."

That didn't make any sense, they were in the same unit. Weren't they? No, he hadn't seen Steve in a long time. He'd lost his arm and then. . .

"Where are we?" he asked, feeling panic rise again. "I need my medicine."

"It's all right. You're safe. This is Miss Newbury. She's a nurse, she's going to help take care of you."

He looked at the woman again and she smiled, face going from unforgiving and severe to almost pretty. "Hello. If you'd like some medicine I can get you some. But how about a little less than you've been taking? You want to be clear headed to catch up with the Marshal, don't you?"

That made sense. . . the medicine did make things fuzzy sometimes. And she was a nurse so she'd know best. "All right," he said quietly.

"I'll go and fetch some. And maybe a little food with it?"

He didn't remember when he last ate. It must have been a while. His stomach rumbled at the thought. "All right."

Another smile and she nodded. "I'll be right back," she said and with a glance at Steve she left them alone. He took a moment to look around the room. Sturdy wood bed. Night table with a small stack of books and a pair of reading glasses. Steve was folded into an almost dainty arm chair. Not the kind of recovery room you found in a field hospital.

"The war . . ."

"The war has been over for four years," Steve said slowly. "The south surrendered. Everyone went home."

"No. I-" That couldn't be right. "The commander has been sending me on missions. It's still happening. The cannons. . ."

"It isn't. I promise. The cannons, they're just memories."

"But the commander. The people I killed."

Before Steve could reply Miss Newbury appeared with a tray of food. "The commander is being relieved a duty. For conduct unbecoming." She gave Steve a look he couldn't read. "I think you've earned a bit of a rest, don't you?"

"I can't sleep without the medicine," Bucky said quietly.

"I understand," she said and she was so calm and gentle he felt like she did understand. "I brought some." She set the tray on the night stand and handed him a shot glass. "A little now. And then more after supper. It'll work better that way."

He couldn't bring it too his lips with his arm tied. "Could you. . .?"

She hesitated a fraction of a second, then loosened the tie on his wrist so he could do it. "Our friend the blacksmith is looking at your arm. It needed a little cleaning and repair."

He drank the bitter liquid, letting it settle in his stomach. "Thank you."

Taking back the glass, she moved the tray to the bed. It held a bowl half full of soup and a hunk of bread. "Chicken soup," she said, making a note of something on a scrap of paper. "Best medicine in the world, my Mama used to say. And she married a doctor, so she would know."

He scraped for manners. He'd had them once, hadn't he? Before the cannons, before the hospital, before the war. He knew how to talk to a lady. "Thank you, ma'am."

She smiled widely and for a moment she was quite pretty. "You're welcome. You can call me Amanda if you like. Or Nurse, if you're mad at me." She gathered up the medicine bottle and her paper. "I'll let you two chat while you eat," she said, and then she was gone.

Steve shook his head. "Still have a way with women, I see."

"Was that what that was?"

"Most I've seen her smile since I met her."

"I don't remember the nurses being that pretty."

Steve laughed a little. "Most of them weren't. I'm not sure how she snuck in." He gestured at the soup. "Eat a little. You look like you could use it."

"The rations get worse every year." He swallowed a spoonful of the soup and found it delicious. Pretty soon he decided to just slurp it right out of the bowl.

Steve was quiet as he finished eating. "You're safe here, Buck," he finally said.

The medicine was kicking in, taking the bad away with it and wrapping him in a warm blanket. Not like it usually did. His arm still hurt. But it was better. Better enough he almost believe Steve. "You really think so?"

"I do. I trust these people. They want to help."

Bucky ate the bread and contemplated that. "I missed you, you know. Battles haven't been the same without you."

An odd expression crossed Steve's face. But all he said was, "Yeah, me too. Nothing's been the same."

"I gotta tell you, though. I'm really tired of fighting. Sometimes I really want to just go home." He looked down at his tray. "They still shoot deserters, don't they?"

"You're not- " Steve sighed. "There are exceptions."

"Like when your commanding officer has been relieved of duty for doing something bad?"

"That would be a real good reason." He paused. "I'm working with the marshals now. I can probably help you out."

"You are not. Show me the badge."

Steve chuckled and dug it out of his pocket and tossed it on the bed next to him. He picked it up and looked at the shiny star. It looked real enough to him. "Man, now we can't get into _any_ trouble."

"Alternately, any trouble I get into is legally sanctioned."

He sighed. "I feeling tired. You think I can sleep for a little while?"

"Sure." He took his badge back and stood. "I got some stuff to do, but I'll be back later. Amanda will be here if you need anything."

That made him smile. He settled back onto the bed, and closed his eyes. He opened them a moment later and said, "I wouldn't hurt her."

Steve glanced at the tie still dangling from the side of the bed. He gave a little nod and looked back at Bucky. "I know you won't."

*

It was a good day for a funeral, Steve thought, squinting into the bright, mid-morning sun. Of course, he'd never been to a funeral where someone didn't say it was a nice day for it. Sunny, cloudy, cold, wet. It was one of those things people said. Like offering their condolences and bringing over food everyone was too sad to eat. They'd done that when his Pop died, but he'd been too young to understand why. And again when his Ma died, though Bucky and his parents had handled most of that.

He shook himself a little. Stupid to get melancholy at a fake funeral. Loki had passed the word to Pierce that Bucky had died in a shoot out with Barton. Pierce had been watching and had seen them carry his body to the Doc's. Loki had conveniently been talking to him when they moved him over to Nurse Newbury's later on.

Now, with the old man still looking down at the town like a God on-high, it was time to complete the charade. Thor had built a nice coffin, they'd filled it with dirt from Natasha's back yard. And he and Barton had spent the morning digging a hole a few yards from where they'd buried the stage robbers.

"You know," Barton said, heaving a shovel-full up into the pile. "This is really good soil."

Steve didn't know good soil from ash, so he'd have to take his word for it. "The saloon appears to have a nice garden."

"It does. A lot of things grow here. Not a bad place to have a farm."

He glanced over at the other man. "You rethinking leaving when it's all over?"

"I don't know. I have some land in Pennsylvania. Farmland. We never settled anywhere when I was growing up. So I always wanted some dirt of my own, you know? Kansas was a mess when I left for the war. Coming back here didn't seem like a good idea."

"I suppose it's still kind of a mess," Steve muttered, digging his shovel into the earth. "This little patch anyway. Still, without Pierce having a chokehold over it, it'd be a nice little town."

"Don't tell me _you_ are thinking of staying. Can you even do that? Or won't the Marshals call you back?"

"I don't know what I'm doing. I came looking for Bucky and I found him, but. . ." He shook his head. "He doesn't know what year it is. He thinks he's still in the war. Miss. Newbury thinks once she's gotten him through the worst of the opium dependency he'll be clearer headed." His shovel hit the dirt with more force than necessary. "I can't plan anything just yet."

"You want to take him home?"

"It was my original plan, but there's not much to go back to. He didn't have a girl and his parents are gone. And I'm concerned the noise and crowds of New York wouldn't do him any favors. Mentally."

"It is a wide open frontier. There's probably an infinite number of places to be."

"That is true." He squinted back at the town. "This place seems to grow on you, though."

"Some people are suckers for hard luck cases." He put his shovel down. "I think this is good enough for distance viewing. It's not six feet, but then there's no actual body."

"Good enough. Here comes the procession, anyway."

Thor, Stark, Doc and Wilson the Barber had offered to carry the coffin. Coulson was at the head of the line, leading them up the little path to the cemetery, such as it was. Nat and a few of the girls trailed along behind. Quite a show they were putting on.

"I have never presided over a funeral like this," Rev. Coulson said. "This is a unique town."

"We were just saying the same thing," Steve said casually.

He shook his head a little as the coffin was lowered into the ground. "Dearly beloved," he intoned solemnly, "We are gathered here today to pay our last respects to this. . .box of dirt, committed blasphemously here into this sacred ground, with the hope of there being less people being murdered for petty reasons, by the despotic tyrant that you have, for your mysterious reasons, seen fit to allow run rampant over this town." 

Steve saw Nat bury her face in her handkerchief, presumable to muffle the giggles that seemed to have come over her. The rest of them intoned a remarkably solemn, “Amen.”

The preacher leaned over, and tossed on the first shovelful of dirt. "Ashes to ashes, dirt to dirt, literally. Don't pack it in too tight to dig up. Our lord does not approve of wasting perfectly good wood on a prairie such as this." He held the shovel out to Steve.

"Thank you, Reverend. That was very touching," he said in the most neutral tone he was capable of. Natasha's laughing sounded remarkably like crying if you weren't paying too much attention. Barton put an arm around her, pulling her close and possibly trying to muffle the sound in his shirt. 

"It's days like this I'm glad hallucinations aren't a symptom of my condition," Doc said, taking Barton's shovel from him.

The "mourners" took turns shoveling dirt on top of the coffin, until most of it had gone back in. Natasha has stopped laughing long enough to say, "Anyone up for a wake?"

That brought a ragged cheer and they all trudged down the path to the saloon. She was still red faced but managed to dig up some bottles and line up glasses. The men lined up at the bar. "So, I may have one small problem," Doc said.

"Is it the kind of problem I need to get Amanda for?" Nat asked him as she filled his glass.

"No. We've been. . . filling Sitwell with laudanum, to keep him out of the way. He thinks it's for his not-really-infected finger. But I only have so much opium of any sort, and I'm going to need it for Mr. Barnes."

Barton exchanged a look with Steve. "It's probably safe to let him back into the world. Long as we keep your friend out of view."

"That's probably a good idea in any case," Doc said. "Until he's a little more stable."

Steve nodded. "Let Sitwell sober up. He's pretty harmless. And Bucky needs the opium more."

"His arm is ready if you want to pick it up," Stark added. "Remarkable piece of engineering."

"It was very expensive," Steve said. "What did you do to it?"

He shrugged. "Cleaned it, replaced the elbow joint and oiled some of the articulation in the hand."

"Thank you. Can you hide it in something so it's not seen?"

"I can dig up a sack or something to cover it in." He sipped his drink. "We should figure out some sort of system for getting things in and out of the nurse's house. If Pierce is going to be keeping that close an eye on us."

"Use me or one of the girls, or Amanda herself," Nat said. "Tie a bag around our waists. Skirts these days you could hide artillery under."

"That's a good idea," Steve agreed.

"From what Loki's said we could carry it all in the open," Syn said. "Pierce doesn't think much of us whores."

"My concern is the traffic could be obvious," Stark said. "People always carrying things."

"Good point," she conceded. "And us girls do like to see Amanda. No offense Doc."

He lifted his glass. "Understandable."

"Someone should pass the word to Pierce that Rogers is courting her," Wilson said. They all turned to look at him. "What? The Marshal going over there all the time is going to look fishy. And you know you will," he said, looking at Steve.

He couldn't argue with that. "I would want Miss Newbury to agree to it."

"Might work in our favor," Clint said. "If he thinks you're distracted."

"Yes, and it could also make her a target," Doc said.

"Anybody not a target anymore?" Nat asked.

"Medical personnel are generally neutral in military situations," Coulson offered. "As are clergy."

They all turned to look at him. "Were you in the war, reverend?" Steve asked politely.

"I was," he replied, not adding any further detail. "Is there anyone who wasn't?"

"No, I suppose not." They were all quiet a moment. 

Syn cleared her throat and lifted her glass. "I know this wasn't a real funeral. But I'll make a toast. To all the ones we lost but didn't get to bury."

A row of glasses raised. Barton added, "And all the ones we wish we hadn't killed." There was a murmur of agreement and a chorus of glasses clinking together. 

It felt more like a proper wake after that, though not for any one person. Steve heard people telling war stories. Tales of friends and brothers who made it through and those left in the mud of some battlefield. He'd been so grateful when Bucky had survived his death sentence, and come home from the war. But he hadn't, really. He still wasn't sure if he ever would.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That funeral is in my top ten scenes we've ever written.


	11. Unforgiven

Barton was tucked in a corner with Natasha on his lap and Stark and the Doc had begun a game of cards. Steve found himself in one corner of the bar, watching them when Syn bumped him on the arm. "You're looking far too somber," she said. "Too much drink or not enough?"

"I don't get drunk very easy," he said with a sigh. "I was just thinking, mostly. Now that I've somewhat reached the end of my quest."

"They never talk about that, do they? The stories. The tales about heroes and quests." She smiled a little. "We never find out what, exactly, happens in happily ever after." She looked up at him. "Do you need to find a new quest?"

"Got something that needs finding?" he asked her.

Her smile turned a little sad. "No. I know where everything I care about is. Though I could ask around. I hear they're still trying to find the Grail, if you're feeling ambitious."

"You doing all right, Syn?" he asked. "I know all this seems to have impacted your. . .your income."

She batted her lashes. "Are you offering to make up the difference?" His face must have looked panicked, because she laughed. "I appreciate the concern, Marshal. But Loki is treating me quite well and I don't think Natasha has plans to kick me out just yet." She looked around the room. "Actually, I'm rather grateful. He makes me happy. That's not easy for me."

"We are all a bunch of misbegotten, damaged people. For some reason trying to save this town."

"Misfits trying to save a misfit town? Makes perfect sense to me."

He took another sip of his drink and shrugged. "Nice to have something to fight for again."

"Yes, it is." She downed her drink and put it on the bar. "I'm going to slip away to visit my favorite misfit. Try to enjoy yourself, Marshal. The little victories are as important as the big ones."

"I will," he said. "Thank you, ma'am."

She dipped him a little curtsy and turned away, disappearing into the kitchen.

*

When word of the funeral had made its way through town Loki had closed up the telegraph office. No one from town would be visiting him and Pierce would be up in his grand house, watching the goings on. He briefly considered joining the "wake" that was obviously being held in the saloon. But decided his presence would only put a damper on things. As always, he didn't quite fit, as much as he might wish it.

He was in his parlor, reading a book had all but memorized, when he heard the faint click of his back door. For a heartbeat he thought Pierce had found him out and sent one of his goons to deal with the traitor. In the next breath he recognized the soft tread on his floor and relaxed.

As expected, Syn appeared in his doorway, dressed like an almost proper lady, save for her lack of shoes. She crossed her arms and leaned a shoulder on the doorway. "Hello."

He smiled, happy to see her. He was still fairly certain this was a doomed enterprise, but for the moment she made him feel content and normal. Like he could see glimpses of a life he might have had, if he'd been who he'd once thought he was. 

Not that his father would have ever approved of a frontier prostitute who didn't wear shoes. He could see his mother coming around one day, though. His mother. . .

He shook his head, chasing off the dark thoughts. "Hello, Syn."

"The box of dirt was buried with all rights and honors," she told him, coming into the room. She perched on the ottoman, nudging his feet over with her hip. "The girls and I have been nominated to shuffle supplies to Amanda and her patient." One of her hands rested on his leg, rubbing lightly. "And I missed you. So I came to visit."

He reached down to put his hand over hers. "I missed you, too."

She smiled, her wide, honest smile that he'd only just started to see. She leaned forward to kiss him lightly. Then she tipped her head and nudged his book up so she could read the spine. " _The Count of Monte Cristo_. I've seen you read this before."

"I like the concept. Being able to get vengeance against all those who wronged you, without destroying your soul."

His words made something dark cross her expression. "Do you think it's possible?"

He thought about watching the plantation house burn, and feeling nothing he expected. "No. Not outside of fiction."

Her fingers stroked over the back of his hand. "I was talking to the Marshal today. He said we were all damaged people." She wove her fingers with his before looking up at his face. "Do you think the reason we get along so well is that we're damaged in some of the same places?"

"I don't know," he said quietly. "I still don't think I'm worthy of you." 

"From appearances, I'm the one who isn't good enough for you."

"That's just because others don't know what I really am."

She frowned a little. "They wouldn't care. Not the people here. Not your brother." Her fingers squeezed his. " _I_ don't care."

"You'd be surprised how much people care about that sort of thing." 

"I think in this odd, misfit town who your parents were or were not is the least of anyone's problem." She stroked his hair back from his face, fingers toying with the strands. "You're a good man, Loki. You saved a lot of lives, telling me about the fire. That's what matters."

Sometimes, when she looked at him the way she was now, he could almost believe that. "I've killed a lot of people, too. I've done some pretty bad things. You just. . . see me at my best."

She looked down at their hands, mouth pursed in thought. She rarely wore gloves, and her hands had a warm tan, making his look pale in comparison. "I've killed people too," she said quietly. "Done bad things. And I didn't have the excuse of war."

The statement surprised him. "I didn't know that."

"I don't exactly brag about it." She glanced up at him, then back at their hands. "It was a long time ago. Before I came here."

"I led a regiment of Union soldiers to my family's plantation. They stole everything of value and burned the house to the ground. My mother—" he closed his eyes "—well, Thor's mother, died in the fight. Some of the slaves had stayed behind and ended up trying to help defend the house . . . it was a slaughter. Then the troops went on to raid the neighboring plantations. . . I couldn't do anything to stop it by then." 

He heard her suck in a breath, then the press of her forehead to his, hands cupping his face. "Oh, Loki."

"I wanted revenge on my father. For making my entire life a lie. Hell, for the fact that I exist at all. How much say do you imagine my real mother had in my conception? For a lot of things. It didn't go anything like I planned. Edmund Dantes I am not."

Her thumb stroked his cheek lightly. Whens she spoke again, her voice was very quiet. "My family rode the Oregon trail when I was about ten. Me, my mother and father and my older brother. Going to start a new life. But our wagon broke a spoke and when we stopped to fix it we were attacked by Indians. My father and brother tried to fight but they were killed. My mother too, trying to protect me. They brought me back with them, made me part of the tribe."

He kissed her forehead. "The bow and arrow."

"Yes. They taught me a lot of things. Thought it was cute. Then one day they told me I was to be married. To the chief's nephew. It might not have been so bad. But he was older than me and mean. He'd been part of the raiding party that killed my family." She paused and he saw her swallow. "After our wedding night, when he was asleep, I killed him. And two other men that had been part of the group. And then I ran."

Perhaps she had been right. They were damaged in the same way. "Did your vengeance fare you better than mine?"

She shrugged. "I think it felt good in the moment. Mostly I remember being numb. And when it was done I had no one and nowhere to go. I remembered my family enough to still miss them. I had had enough kindness with the tribe to miss them. I wandered a long time. Till I found this place, and Natasha and the girls." She smiled. "And now you."

He felt an odd lump in his throat. When had emotion gotten involved with this? "I am honored to be on that list."

Bending forward, she rested her forehead on his again. "I would miss you," she said softly. "If I lost you."

He kissed her, and whispered in reply, "So would I."

She shifted, settling on his lap and leaning against his chest. He wrapped his arms around her, holding her to him. "When this mess with Pierce is over you should try to get to know the others," she said. "Your brother, at least. I think he misses you."

"He followed me here, you know. Came looking for me. He was pretty angry about what happened, I think. I don't blame him."

"Does he know? About your father, your history?"

"Yes. I believe my father told him after I left. Or someone did. He seems to think we're still brothers for some reason."

"Because you are." She pressed a little kiss to his jaw. "Family isn't just about blood, Loki."

"Even if it's true, I could not ask him to forgive me."

"He's stayed here in town all this time. Hasn't called you out or anything." She stroked his arm lightly. "Maybe he's already forgiven you."

"He stays because he's in love with the schoolteacher, who he's afraid to talk to."

That made her laugh. "All right. That might be true." She curled closer to him, head tucked under his chin. "Promise to think about it?"

"I would promise you anything you asked."

He felt her stiffen a little, as if that surprised her. Then she softened in his arms again and lifted her head. "And I would do anything you asked, too."

"I think you've probably already given me far more than I deserve."

"That's too bad," she said, twining her fingers in his hair again. "Because I was hoping to give you a bit more. Maybe in that big, comfy bed of yours."

"That is unbearably tempting. Though I'm not sure that is entirely selfless of you. You do seem to enjoy yourself quite a bit."

"It's mostly the bed," she told him solemnly.

He shifted, wrapping his arms around her such that he could stand with her in them. "You're using me for my feather mattress?"

"And your hands. I like your hands. Your mouth, too, if I'm making a list."

"That's a bit better," he said, carrying her back towards said bedroom.

*

It was Nat's first cattle drive as proprietor of the saloon. In previous years, she had been over worked but mostly happy at the influx of money. Right now, she'd be happy to never see another ranch hand again, flush with money or not. And they were only a few days in.

It didn't help that she was down a girl. Syn had made a valiant attempt to take a client, but hadn't been able to go through with it. Apparently, her thing with Loki was more than even Nat had thought. After the first night Loki had decided to stake out a spot off to one side and made of point of glaring at anyone who looked at Syn for too long. It wasn't quite as effective as Clint's glare, but it did the job and seemed to help with the general rowdiness of the crowd.

 Syn, for her part, had thrown herself into more mundane duties, bussing tables and changing linens when needed. It helped, but Nat was still dead on her feet well before closing.

There was, however, one very large upside to the cattle drives. Eager to get the best price, Pierce took his cattle to the Abilene railheads in advance of the big drives coming through on the trail from Texas. So they had a few weeks when he was gone, and a longer stretch when it was unlikely he'd be up to anything. Too many people passing through town.

It was busy, but it was safe.

Stark had convinced Thor and Clint to take a crash course in blacksmithing, to keep up with the drivers asking for axels and horseshoes. They had been chosen mostly on his assessment of their arm strength. Nat found herself grateful particularly that he kept Thor to busy and tired to get into fist fights with the cowboys. Wilson kept the barbershop open almost as late as the saloon just to keep up. Sometimes he'd come in at the end of the night, looking as exhausted as her, and she'd give him a drink on the house.

They were in the middle of a lull, with the girls all occupied and most of the men in bed or too drunk to be of much nuisance. Syn came in from the kitchen hauling a tray of clean glasses. "Stark, Barton and Thor are either done for the night or taking a break. I gave them a bucket and said they had to rinse off at least the first two layers of soot and sweat before entering."

"Someone told me it's so hot in the forge they work shirtless. I wish I had the time to go take a look."

"Maybe tomorrow if you wake up early enough," Syn offered, lining glasses up behind the bar. She scanned the room quickly. "Think that's the worst of it?"

"I don't know. I've forgotten what day it is."

The other woman made a sympathetic noise and wrapped and arm around her shoulders briefly before heading back to the kitchen for more glasses.

Clint came in as Syn left and Nat held her arms out for him. "You're here to take me away from all this, right?"

He wrapped his arms around her. "You'd regret it before we hit the railhead."

Despite the vague scent of sweat, soot and hot metal clinging to him, she leaned in and kissed him. "Probably, yes."

"Why don't you go to bed early, and I'll mind the bar until closing?"

That sounded so tempting. "Stark is done with you?"

"Yes. I think he's tired. He doesn't seem to sleep much. I told him and Thor I'd buy them a drink."

She nodded. "Maybe I will go nap." She kissed him again. "If Sam Wilson comes in give him a drink on the house."

He tucked her hair behind her ear. "I'll be up after closing."

"Thank you, honey," she said before heading to the stairs.

She was out before her head hit the pillow. The next thing she knew, Clint was climbing into bed with her. She hadn't meant to sleep that long.

"Shh," he said. "All closed up."

She grumbled and curled close to him. "Any casualties?"

"Nope. Though I did learn that Thor can sing."

"Did I miss southern drinking songs?"

"I'm surprised it didn't wake you. He had quite a chorus."

"Did Loki join in? I'm going to be very sad if I missed that humiliation opportunity."

"He and Syn sat in their corner. If he was singing, it wasn't very loud."

"My world continues to make sense." She pressed a kiss onto his shoulder. "Thank you for letting me sleep."

"You looked like you were going to fall asleep behind the bar."

"It was very possible. I didn't know how hard this would be."

He rubbed her back in slow circles. "Do you need more help? I can tell Stark to piss off and come take a shift here."

She sighed, letting his touch relax her. "I could use the help," she admitted, too mellow to put up her usual front.

"Then I will make it happen," he replied, digging his fingers a little into the knot between her shoulder blades.

The sound she made was one usually reserved for more carnal activities. She leaned her head forward and rested it on his shoulder, letting him have his way with her back. "Lay on your stomach," he said. She cracked one eye open, and he said, "I'm just going to rub your back. Better leverage."

Well, even if his intentions weren't entirely pure, if he kept massaging her like that she might not mind. Rolling onto her stomach, she hugged a pillow under her cheek, getting comfortable. He started from her neck, and worked his way down along her spine. She had done this for clients before, because they were nervous or sore or because they asked. But no one had ever done it for her. His hands were big, rough. And he seemed to know exactly how hard he should press or how deep to dig to make it feel good.

Nat let herself go, moaning as he soothed all her aches, loosened all her tension. He moved down to her very tired legs and feet, and then back up. It was absolutely, utterly heavenly. "Thank you for writing me back," he said softly. "I'm glad I came here."

She sighed deeply. "I am, too."

"Even though I may have made things worse?"

"It was all going to come to a head again anyway. I'd rather it get bad with you here than without." She turned her head to smile at him over her shoulder. "My secret weapon."

"I don't know how secret I am."

"I think you took him by surprise. Though I suppose not anymore."

His touch softened, more the gentle stroking from before, and he stretched out again on the mattress. "Well, now we're in for the long haul."

"Mmm," she mumbled. "For better or worse."

He chuckled, kissing her shoulder. "In sickness and in health, too?"

"Sounds good. I'm not going to obey you, though."

He pulled her a little closer. "But that's the best part."

She laughed, nuzzling into his side. "You wouldn't like me if I was compliant."

Sleep tugged at her, as he held her gently and kissed her hair. "I love you just as you are."

Had she been anymore awake she might have stared at him in shock at that little confession. But right now she was too relaxed and happy to say anything but, "I love you, too."

She felt as much as heard his sigh of contentment. "Sleep," he whispered.

"Mmm," she mumbled, already drifting off, safe in his arms.


	12. She Wore a Yellow Ribbon

It was the third night a row the yelling had woken Amanda.

Barnes had been a guest in her back room for over a week. She had been all but a prisoner in her home for the duration. Girls from the saloon brought her supplies, as did the Marshal. (He had, apparently, started a rumor he was courting her in an effort to alleviate suspicions. Personally, she found the idea of someone who looked like _him_ courting a spinster nurse far more suspicious, but that was neither here nor there.) In the time she'd been caring for him, Barnes had put on a little weight and managed to keep a steady enough hand to shave a bit, though he still had a healthy layer of stubble on his jaw. He looked better, if not well, then far less the dead man walking he'd been when he came in.

The first few nights he slept peacefully, full of good food and morphine. But as she slowly lowered his doses the nightmares started. Amanda was used to nightmares. In the war the recovery tents had been full of men crying out in their sleep. They called for their mothers or their sweet hearts. They said the names of friends and brothers lost. They pleaded, with God or the devil, to please, please let them die. Or keep them from dying. She had heard it all.

The first two nights she'd sat in her bed and listened to him call, debating waking him. Some said it was better to let the dreams play out. Others that it was traumatic. Amanda was undecided and he had woken himself up before she'd come to any conclusion.

The third night his cries had a particularly panicked pitch. As if he was reliving something particularly horrifying, not just a vague dreamscape. She was barely fully awake before she had her feet in her slippers and made her way to his room.

He wanted something to stop, but she couldn't understand what. He was thrashing around, and when she reached to touch him, he moved suddenly. The next thing she knew, she was on the floor pinned beneath him.

His eyes were open, but not really focused. His hand was on her throat, too tight to talk. She curled gentle fingers around his wrist and squeezed lightly to try to get his attention. Her heart pounded in her chest, until finally he really looked at her. Then he gave a start and scrambled back.

Coughing, she sat up and rubbed her throat. He had scooted with his back against the bed, looking at her in horror. "It's all right," she said and was relieved she didn't sound hoarse.

"I'm so sorry. I don't—I didn't—"

"It's all right," she repeated softly. "You were dreaming and I touched you. I should have known better. I _do_ know better." Carefully, slow enough he could move away if he needed to, she reached out and touched his arm. "I'm fine."

"I didn't hurt you?"

"No. Just startled me."

He scrubbed his face. "I hate the dreams."

"I know," she said softly. "So do I." He looked at her and she added, "They do get better."

"You have the dreams?"

She nodded. "I was a nurse in a field hospital. I saw a lot of suffering, held the hands of a lot of dying men. And that was before we found out how quick I could be with a saw." She said the last hesitantly, not sure how he'd take knowing she'd done to others what had been done to him.

"You didn't have enough ether either?"

"It was often in short supply. The quicker you could get through it the better. Less chance of bleeding out, too. It was necessary and the doctors told me I should be proud of my skill. But it's an awful thing to do to a man."

"The surgeon who did my wrist was fast," Barnes said after a moment. He made a little chopping motion in the air where his left wrist would have been. "The elbow they chloroformed me. The shoulder. . ." His eyes unfocused, staring off into space for a moment. 

Generally speaking, the higher up the limb the worse the worse the surgery and the harder the recovery. The blood vessels were bigger up there, the bones harder to get through. She touched his foot lightly. "Would you like some tea?"

He smiled a little. "Yes, ma'am. Thank you."

She slowly got to her feet. "Why don't you come out and have it in the kitchen? Getting out of this room might do you good."

He stood up as well. "Going to give me the grand tour?"

"Well, I don't know how grand it will be. But you're welcome to poke around." She had left the door open when she'd come in and headed out to the kitchen, lighting a lantern on the table before moving to the kettle.

She watched him do a slow perusal. Then he asked, "So are you from here?"

"Not originally, no. I came with Doctor Banner." She puttered about getting a tea pot and cups. "I'm from just outside of Boston originally."

"Are you and he. . ." he trailed off, apparently not sure how to finish his question.

"No," she said quickly, then repeated softer, "No. We're colleagues, nothing more. He has a . . . condition that sometimes sends him into rages. He needed someone who could help control him then that happens. I was a spinster and, after the war, an orphan, so I took the job."

"You were a battlefield nurse?"

She nodded. "My father was a doctor. I assisted him from an early age. When the war started he went to help and so did I."

"All the nurses I saw were old and ugly. Wondered how they let you join. But I suppose bringing Dad along will help."

"I was considered a spinster, but yes, I was younger than most of the other nurses. They were desperate for help and my father promised to watch me." She shrugged. "I was left alone. Men respect a woman who carries a bone saw in her bag."

That made him grin, which changed his entire face. "I like you."

Simple words, but from someone like him, who had been so abused, they meant a great deal. "Thank you. I like you, too."

"You're not afraid of me?"

"No," she said honestly, moving to take the now steaming kettle off the heat. "You seem like a good man."

"How can you know that? I don't even know that."

"I believe the Sherif is a good man and he wouldn't have spent so much time and effort trying to find you if you weren't, too." She poured the water into the tea pot and swirled it to help the tea leaves steep faster. "And I have a fairly good sense of people."

"Steve knew me before the war. I think I was a good man. Then."

"The war changed everyone," she told him. "It's all right to take time to figure out who you are now."

He was quiet a moment, before asking, "You think they'll hang me?"

The cups clattered a little as she set them down. "Hang you? For what?"

"I killed people. I thought they were enemy soldiers, but they weren't."

Well, at least he wasn't still worried about being branded a deserter. "That wasn't you," she said softly. "Not really. It was the drugs and Pierce's influence. I don't think anyone blames you for that."

"Doesn't make it any less murder," he replied quietly.

She poured tea into the cups and slid one in front of him. "Are the nightmares about the war? Or about what Pierce made you do?"

"It's hard to tell them apart." He sipped his tea. "I was lost in my own head a lot. It was all a jumble of death and violence."

Cupping her hands around her own warm cup, she confessed, "Mine have a lot of blood. And screaming. When I hear people scream it takes me back there. I had to stop attending births."

He looked down at his cup. "Oh, you must _love_ having me here, then."

Admittedly, her sleep had been more troubled than usual since he'd come here. But she wasn't going to tell him that. "I do like having you here," she said. "I like that I can help you."

"I dream about screaming a lot. But it's usually me. In the hospital. The people I killed didn't scream." He drank his tea. "I didn't want them to hurt. Even if they were the enemy."

"That's good. Admirable. To not want to cause pain."

He lifted a shoulder. "Doesn't make it right."

"No, I suppose it doesn't." Just as knowing the pain she had caused for the right reasons didn't make her feel much better. She looked down at her tea. "We all have our scars. It's part of healing to figure put how to carry them."

"How do you do it?"

She smiled thinly. "Sometimes I'm not sure, myself. Time and distance helped. Being a nurse, being useful. But I'm not who I was before. I'm harder and sadder."

"I wonder if Steve wants me to be who I was. He'll be disappointed."

That was probably something she should bring up to the other man. "I'm sure he's not the same. I'm sure he'll understand."

"He's always been driven by something. . . good. Something I'm not sure I have. Like he could walk through hell and come out on the other side without being singed. Whereas people like us are practically charcoal."

"The world needs people like him. To get us back on track when we've gone astray." Barnes looked down but she continued. "And it needs people like us, to do what needs to be done when there aren't any other options."

"I'd like to do some good someday," he told her, sounding oddly uncertain.

"Did you have a profession? Before the war?"

"I was a carpenter. But I think that requires two arms."

That would make it difficult. "I'm sure we can think of something."

He was a quiet a long moment. "Maybe I could kill Pierce."

She should probably discourage such thinking. But all she could think to say was, "I think there'll be a line."

"Will you be on it?"

"No. He hasn't done anything to me personally. Though if he needs anything amputated I'd be willing to polish off my old saw."

That made Barnes laugh, and the sound seemed to surprise him. She imagined it had been a while. "Steve will have him taken for trial. He'll want it done proper."

Amanda was rather a fan of frontier justice. But she'd been raised in the east and could respect the rule of law, as well. "I trust him to see it done right. Make sure he actually gets a punishment he deserves." She sipped her tea. "Not sure Pierce is the type to go quietly, though. It may not be an option."

"Good there's people like us, then."

She held her cup out and clinked it lightly against his. "Amen to that."

*

The cattle drive was chaos. The locals had warned Steve, but he hadn't really understood until he was shoving six battered drunks into his little jail and handcuffing a seventh to the desk in desperation. Brawling, cheating at cards, petty theft, more brawling. All he did all day was break up fights and confiscate guns. He had to go over to the smithy and tell a very pissed off Stark that he needed his deputy back. Two weeks in he convinced Wilson to close the barbershop for half the day to be his second deputy. Mrs. Hill's supply order was so a huge Wells Fargo sent an entire off-cycle wagon with her goods. It contained Barton's Whitworth Rifle, much to his delight.

Week three, Steve, his deputies, and Thor were behind the jail, building a wooden stockade. "Is this pen really going to hold them?"

"Stark said they had one just like it at the prison he was in," Thor replied, swinging his hammer to knock in another post. "I admit, he does not strike me as a criminal."

Steve stopped to wipe sweat from his brow. It was blazing hot, and he decided to give up on dignity and follow the rest of them in removing his shirt. "He was a prisoner of war," Steve said.

Thor paled a bit, pausing before hitting the post again. "I suppose that might explain his avoidance of me."

"Stark avoids everyone," Barton said, driving a post of his own. "Don't take it personally."

"If I can put up with you," Wilson said. "The rest of them should shut the hell up."

Thor shoved the post-holer into the ground. "You have every right not to. Put up with me."

"This is too small a town for that shit," he replied. "Besides, I shave you, I know exactly where your jugular is and I carry the sharpest blade in town."

"This town is strange," Steve muttered

"The west is strange," Barton replied.

There was a sharp wolf whistle from behind them, and Steve turned to see Natasha standing by the side of the jail. "I'm going to go close the saloon and tell all my girls to come for the free peep show."

"Who said it was free?" Wilson called back and she grinned.

"Name your price," she replied, picking her way through the rocky yard. When she reached Barton she reached up and tugged him down for a kiss that would have gotten them arrested in the street back east.

"That looks like a pretty fair trade to me," Thor said.

"I'll call the schoolteacher," Steve shot back, making Thor flush. The teasing and camaraderie reminded him of the war, before it got awful. Here he thought he'd run out of pleasant memories.

"Delightful as this is," Natasha said. "The stage is running early. You might want to consider returning to acceptable attire.

"And I might want to go open the barbershop," Wilson said. "Duty calls."

"I promised Stark I'd help when the stage came," Barton said.

"You know, we used to shoot deserters," Steve told them.

"I'd see you coming, Rogers," Barton replied, slinging an arm around Natasha as he headed off to get his shirt. Wilson followed.

Thor glanced over at him. "I will stay loyal, Marshal," he said, with such seriousness he had to be teasing.

"Good, because if we don't get this thing built I'm going to start handcuffing the drunks to _you_."

He laughed, loud enough it echoed across the yard.

They got back to work and were fastening the hinges onto the stockade when a voice said at Steve's elbow, "Dammit, I was promised shirtlessness."

He jumped a foot, looking down to find Syn standing there, hands on her hips. Christ, she moved quietly.

She and Thor eyed each other across the stockade. "Miss Syn," he said finally.

"Thor," she replied. "I don't bite. Nor am I going to go running and tell him you were mean to me. Also, I'm here for the Sherif."

"You know I'm not actually a Sheriff." People had started calling him that lately. 

She shrugged. "Close enough. Anyway, we have a little. . . situation at the saloon that needs your attention."

He sighed. "Oh, what else is new?"

"No, no. This is a good one. We got us a mail order bride."

He blinked. "Did. . . is there some sort of 'lady ordering' catalog business and you and Natasha got the books confused?"

She grinned, like was absolutely loving being the purveyor of this information. "No. Apparently Rumlow, may he rest in eternal torment since you and Barton shot him trying to rob the stage, ordered himself a bride before meeting the unfortunate end of your gun. She's just arrived and no one is entirely sure what to do with her. Seemed like it would be a good idea to get the town official to come help the situation."

With a sigh, he looked skyward a moment. "When did I become the town official?"

There was a pause, then Syn said, "When you came into town and started acting all official?"

"Do you tell her that he's dead?"

"They were dancing around it when I left. I imagine Nat or Darcy will start getting blunt soon enough. But she seems kind of. . . fluffy and fragile."

Steve tipped his head back and looked up at the sky. He really did not need this now. "Is she yet aware the only hotel is also both a saloon and a brothel?"

"I think that was being discussed, yes."

"To be fair," Thor added. "That's not uncommon. At least in my travels."

"Somehow I expect this girl has not had a lot of travels." He looked over at Thor. "You got the rest of this?"

"Of course. See to the lady."

He nodded, and followed Syn back to the saloon. "She'll probably be here until the return stage comes through."

"Which could run late, depending on weather and the cattle." Steve was really starting to hate cows.

They entered the saloon to find the usual suspects crowded at the bar. A blonde woman in a pale, fussy gown and ridiculous hat sat at a table nearby, dabbing at her eyes with a lace handkerchief. Apparently someone had told her she was a widow.

He leaned over to Syn and whispered, "I don't do tears."

"Have I given you any indication _I_ do?"

"I don't know. You have lady parts."

She glared at him. "I will try to get her calm. Go talk to the others." Muttering under her breath, she went to sit with the newcomer.

Steve drifted toward the bar, where Natasha was. "Hi."

"Hello. I long for peace and quiet."

He leaned against it and took the drink she offered. "Instead you got a weeping debutante."

"I'm hoping in time, she'll realize it's a good thing. Rumlow wouldn't have treated her gentle."

"That's certainly true. Who does that sort of thing? Sell yourself to a stranger?" He paused. "Not that—I mean, what you do is different. Less permanent. You can throw them out. Or off the roof, as the case may be."

She looked amused. "Rumors are a lot of girls like me turn to mail order to get out of the business, go legit. Not sure that's true of this one," she added with an arched brow at the girl. "But there's a lot of reasons a girl would want to get out of her parents’ house."

"I'm not a woman, so I can only theorize. . . but I think I'd rather sleep with lots of strangers once than one jerk permanently."

"You'd be surprised how different you might feel if you could get pregnant, Marshal."

"Fair enough."

Syn came back to the bar, and punched him in the arm hard enough it hurt a little bit, but he resisted rubbing it. "Go. Man up."

He cleared his throat, and picked up his hat off the bar where he'd set it. He looked from one to the other. "Ladies."

In unison they curtseyed. Nat's was much better than Syn's, but the fact they did it in sync was amusing. Then Syn raised a fist like she might punch somewhere other than his arm if he didn't get on with it. So he turned and went to the little table the woman sat at.

She looked up as he reached her, eyes water and red rimmed. It was the only sign she'd been crying, her composure back in place. She was pretty, with a thin nose and dark brown eyes. The wisps of hair escaping her hat looked fine and blonde.

"Hello," he said, sitting across from her. "I'm Marshal Rogers."

Sniffling a little, she offered a hand. "Sharon Carter. It's nice to meet you, Marshal."

It had been so long since he'd met a woman who wasn't a rough and tumble frontier girl that it took him a moment to remember what he was supposed to do. He took her gloved hand and kissed her knuckles. "The pleasure is mine, Miss Carter."

She blushed prettily. "I'm afraid you're not meeting me at my best. It's been a very trying day so far."

"I would expect so, yes. I think the best solution would be for you to stay here until the return stage, and then we'll pay your fare back home to your family."

To his horror, she sniffled again and more tears spilled over. She dashed them away with her now limp handkerchief. "I'm afraid I have no one to go home to," she said, voice quavery. "My situation was quite dire, that's why I came here." Dredging composure from somewhere she added. "But that's not your concern of course. I'm sorry."

"It is my concern, since it's my town you're stranded in." Apparently even he thought it was his town now. His fished his own handkerchief out of his pocket and handed it over. It was plain gingham cotton in comparison to her fancy lace and embroidered one, but she took it with a grateful smile.

"Thank you," she murmured, dabbing her eyes and nose politely. "Miss Natasha also extended her hospitality and I appreciate it. Perhaps by the time the stage comes back a solution will have presented itself."

He glanced around the saloon. "Do me a favor?"

She blinked. "Of course, Marshal."

"Run it by someone—myself, Natasha, Syn. Somebody, before you accept any proposals. No matter how appealing they may seem."

Another blink and when she smiled, it was almost a grin. "Of course, Marshal. That seems very sound advice."

"Is there anything you need? Anything I can get you? Mrs. Hill at the General Store is very nice." Sort of. "If you need anything, feel free to put it on my account and I'll square with her later."

"That's very kind of you, thank you." She paused. "Actually, on the topic of advice. . . does this town have a preacher or man of the cloth? I think this would be an excellent time for some spiritual guidance."

Lord. Of course. Coulson should have been the first person he called. He turned in his chair. "Miss Natasha, can you send someone up to fetch the Reverend?"

She gave a wave of acknowledgement and a moment later Syn ducked out of the saloon. Nat then arched a brow and gestured up stairs. Steve turned back to Miss Carter. "I believe your room is ready if you'd like to get some rest while you wait for the Reverend."

"That would be lovely, thank you." She started to stand and Nat came over to escort her up. Miss Carter looked up at Steve with big brown eyes. "Thank you very much for coming to speak to me, Marshal Rogers. I feel much better about my circumstances."

She really was very pretty. She'd find a husband in short order—this was the west, men were so outnumbered they'd marry women from back east sight unseen. The largest problem was how likely it was he he would turn out to be a decent sort. Given what Steve had seen of this town, it was really hit or miss. Not that that was his problem. "Much obliged, ma'am."

With one more wide smile she nodded her goodbye and followed Natasha up the stairs. He sighed and left the saloon, though a drink sounded pretty appealing. He wanted to stop by and see Bucky today. Doc had said he was completely off the morphine/opium as of today. Seemed a good cause for a visit. Plus, maybe he'd get a kick out of this.


	13. Two Rode Together

Steve was such a regular visiter to the nurse’s house now, he gave only a perfunctory knock before letting himself in. A glance in her front parlor proved it empty, so he headed back towards Bucky's room only to hear the sound of laughter coming from the kitchen. Switching directions, he pushed the door open and stopped in his tracks.

Bucky and Amanda stood by her sink, so close Steve couldn't have slipped a hand between them. Her dress was covered in a fine layer of what looked like flour, a streak of white across her nose just under the bridge of her glasses. Bucky had what looked like a biscuit and was bouncing it in his hand like it was too hot. Steve recognized the grin his friend was giving the nurse quite well. Bucky had always had a way with women.

Bucky transferred the biscuit to his metal hand, and then licked his thumb to wipe the flour off Amanda's nose. Steve almost felt like he should duck back out. 

Amanda blushed, face flushing red, making her scar stand out in stark white. She looked away from Bucky and noticed Steve in the doorway. Squeaking a little, she jumped back. "Marshal."

"Ma'am," he replied, as politely as humanly possible.

Bucky grinned at him. "Hi, Steve."

"Hello. How are you feeling?"

"Much better, actually." He reached behind him and snagged a bowl off the counter, holding it out. “Biscuit?"

"I'll let you two chat," Amanda said in a rush, ducking out the back door.

"Making friends?" Steve asked, inordinately pleased that he could rib him about something. Felt like old times.

Bucky shrugged lazily and popped half a biscuit in his mouth. "Different kind of hunting. Feels good."

"I don't think I've ever seen her laugh."

"Things are better when they're rare." He glanced at the door she'd gone through. "We understand each other. Share some of the same demons."

"You know I'm supposed to be courting her, right? Some friend you are."

That got a crooked grin. "You always did move too slow, Stevie."

Steve's day had just improved tremendously. Bucky really was doing better. "You sound like yourself again," he commented. "Been a long time."

Bucky blew out a breath and went to sit at the rough hewn table in the corner of the room. "I'm down to just a little morphine at night, to help me sleep. Amanda is still trying to fine tune it. The arm hurts on and off." He looked up at Steve. "I still don't remember the war very well. It's a blur and I'm not sure what's real and what Pierce made me believe. But I remember you and the old neighborhood."

"The war was terrible. It's not worth remembering."

Bucky nodded slowly. "I don't really know what to do with myself now. I know I have to hide here for the time being. But. . . I'd like to help."

"Help?"

"The town. With Pierce. However I can. I'd like to do something with myself, other than sit around here trying to read and teasing 'Manda."

Steve chose not to comment on the nickname. "Good. We'll certainly need you the next time we have a shootout. Which, this place. . . could be any time."

"Yeah, she's mentioned." Bucky shook his head. "Hell of a place we ended up in."

"The west is weird. Today I met a dead man's mail order bride."

Bucky choked on the biscuit. "What?"

"I told you about shooting the robbers on my way into town? Apparently one of them ordered a bride from back east. She just showed up today."

"Jesus." He shook his head. "What's she going to do now? Head back home?"

Steve gave him a short version of the conversation he'd had with Miss Carter - skipping exactly how pretty he'd found her - and their current plan of keeping her in the saloon till the stage rolled through again.

Bucky was shaking his head again. "Because what this town needed was another innocent in the crossfire."

"I'm starting to think nearly everybody trapped here is innocent, except Pierce."

Something dark crossed Bucky's face and Steve braced himself for trying to convince him the things he'd done weren't on him. But all he said was, "I suppose there's all manner of levels of innocence."

The door creaked open and Amanda peeked in. "Everything okay in here?"

Bucky turned to look at her and his face softened. "Just fine."

She gave him a smile, and ducked back out. Steve shook his head. "She's looking after you."

"That's her job," he said quietly. He glanced down at his arm, then back at Steve. "She wouldn't have fucked up my arm," he said, with far less bitterness than Steve would have expected. It was almost a joke. Black humor, but still humor.

"You should keep her around, then. You really can't afford to take chances with the other one."

"That's what I'm thinking. Always good to have a nurse on your side."

"Take what happiness you can get," he said.

Bucky's eye softened again. "I'm getting used to that. Being happy."

Steve felt his throat close. "It's really good to have you back." Without a word, Bucky reached out and clapped his good hand on his shoulder, drawing him close to rest his forehead on his, the way they'd done as kids.

"Thanks for coming to find me," he said quietly.

"I'd have chased you all the way to California."

"I know you would." He gave his cocky grin. "Maybe we could have gotten some gold out of that."

"We could have gilded your arm."

He stretched it out. "That would have looked sharp."

"I should get back to the jail," he said with a sigh. He clapped Bucky's shoulder. "See you tomorrow or so. Take good care of her."

"I will." He paused. "You should start knocking."

Steve blinked. "So it's like that?" Bucky wasn't—or hadn't been—the type to take up with unmarried women, but then Amanda seemed particularly non-typical.

Bucky rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly. "I . . . Not yet. I admit my skills in this area are a little rusty but she seems interested. And not entirely innocent. She was an army nurse, you know."

"I think the rules are different in the West, anyway."

"I'm not going to push," Bucky said, a little defensive and a little urgent. "I don't doubt she knows how to say no."

That made Steve laugh. "I think she'd stab you in the kidney."

"See. Maybe it's my honor we should be worried about."

"I can arrange a chaperone. . ."

Bucky made a face. "That's not funny."

He stood up, and grinned down at Bucky. "See you tomorrow. I'll knock. I have no interest in seeing your ass."

"Much obliged, Steve. And likewise, for future reference."

Steve laughed on his way out the door.

*

Tony didn't really know how a cattle drive worked. Oh, he had a vague idea. You took your cattle down to be sold, paid your hands and then everyone blew their wad like it was Christmas and your stag party all wrapped into one. For him, it was a blur of horseshoes and repairs. He barely slept. He only ate when someone else reminded him to do so.

And then it stopped. As if someone had pulled a plug. The crowd thinned, the saloon emptied, and he slept for almost two days straight. He was awakened by Alexander Pierce's voice down in his shop.

"Time for my donation already?" he asked, voice hoarse with sleep and weeks spent over the fire.

"I'm actually a bit late," Pierce said, in that mild, affable tone he loved so much. "The cattle drive and all."

"Was there a cattle drive? I hadn't noticed." He tugged on a pair of soot covered pants and went out to find Pierce inspecting his tools, in one of his pristine grey suits. "Successful trip?" Stark asked, rummaging for his ledger and strong box.

"Very," Pierce said, watching him. "Always nice to settle old business, isn't it?"

He had not had enough sleep for these strange, circuitous conversations the man so enjoyed. "I suppose so."

"I've noticed the Marshal is really setting up shop."

"I haven't set foot outside the smithy in a week and a half, so I couldn't speak to it." He counted out a rather hefty stack of bills. "Marshal strikes me as a man who likes a purpose in life. Might be he's found one." He offered the money to Pierce. "But I'm not an expert on the man's mind."

"You're friends, though?"

"Friends is a strong, broadly defined word. He might have saved my life once. But I'm not a big fan of authority figures." He smiled. "No offense."

"As long as you pay your bills and keep to yourself, you'll get no problems from me."

"Then I think we're better friends than the Marshal and I." The words tasted kind of sour in his mouth, but it was hardly the biggest lie he'd ever told.

Pierce nodded. "Hopefully the Marshal will move on sooner than not." 

"I'll ask the preacher to send up a prayer for you."

That got him a sharp look, and Tony knew there had been too much sarcasm in his voice. "You tell him this town doesn't need him meddling about."

"Next time I'm in a position to offer him advice, I will pass that on."

"This is my town, Mr. Stark," he said as he strolled out. "Mine."

Stark counted to ten before muttering, "You keep telling yourself that."

He made himself busy for a while, so it wouldn't be too obvious. Then, just around lunch time, he very deliberately strolled over to the saloon for food and a drink. The usual day crowd loitered about, most of the girls still asleep. Syn was behind the bar. Doc Banner and Thor sat at one end, conversing about something or other. One table contained an incongruous young woman. She had a yellow dress with a wide skirt and lots of lace. Kid gloves, fancy hat. She looked completely out of place.

She reminded him of Pepper.

This was turning into a remarkably shitty day. He sank into a seat next to Banner. "Anything to eat?" he asked Syn, sounding gruffer than expected.

Her brows went up. "Chicken and corn bread?"

"Fine." He winced at his own tone and added, "Thank you." It wasn't her fault.

"You need some whiskey?" she asked.

He scrubbed a hand over his face. "Pour it in some coffee, I'll feel better about it."

She nodded, and a moment later he had his spiked coffee. "Wonderful medicine for all sorts of wounds."

"Amen to that." He took a sip and sighed. "Marshal around?"

"He's generally pretty obvious when he's in the room."

More coffee so he didn't snap at her again. "Pierce came to see me this morning. Marshal's got him spooked and suspicious. He seems to think I'm on his side." Mostly because he had blackmail material, but that was no one's business. "Probably best if I don't show my face around here more than I have to. But tell Rogers to be on his guard."

Syn nodded. "He'll be in. He's fond of cupcake over there."

Well, now he had to look over at her. "Who the hell is that? You girls broadening your menu?"

"She's a pre-widowed mail order bride. Ordered from back east by one of the shitheads you shot robbing the stage."

"This town has no end of surprises." He took another swig of coffee. "Maybe you should give some of this to her."

"Maybe I should introduce you. You looking for a wife?" There was a thread of amusement in Syn's voice. "Or maybe she's too fancy for someone such as yourself."

He felt a sharp pang somewhere in the vicinity of his heart and downed his coffee, wincing at the double burn of hot liquid and alcohol. "No," he hissed when he was done. "I like them with a little more fire." Not that said fire couldn't be fancy. It could put him in his place in a satin ballgown that cost more than this saloon. 

He really did not need this line of thinking today.

Syn's eyes were entirely too sympathetic. She poured more whiskey in his coffee.

He was on his third cup, eating his lunch and hating life slightly less, when Marshal Rogers came in. Syn put a glass in the spot next to Stark with a pointed look and he obediently sank into the stool on his right.

"You've got Pierce scared shitless," he told Rogers.

"Good," he replied. "He confiding in you now?"

"Seems to think I'm on his side. Or at least not on yours. I've attempted to keep him thinking that way." He sipped his spiked coffee. "I'm just a bored easterner biding his time in this crazy ass town. Pay my dues on time and want to be left alone."

"That's handy, we should maintain that." He glanced over his shoulder, Tony thought in the direction of the woman. "We do have a situation I'd like dealt with before we have another shoot-out."

So Syn had not been exaggerating about the marshal fancying the new woman. "I did not peg you as the ruffles and lace type."

He flushed, as good an acknowledgement as any. "She's a proper lady and she's stranded here. I'm just trying to help."

"Of course you are." He glanced over at the woman, who was reading a small leather bound book and nibbling at her own serving of cornbread. "You might not have a vote in when the next shoot out happens. Pierce said something about finishing up old business." The words hadn't struck him until just now. But Pierce loved him his double talk and now Stark was wondering if there'd been more to that conversation than he'd thought. "He might have something planned."

Steve gave him a sharp look. "Do you think he knows?"

That could cover so many things. Stark had lost count of the secrets and hidden agendas in this place. "I don't think he knows about Barnes, if that's what you're asking. And I doubt he's figured out you're amassing a little civilian army in the saloon. But he's certainly zeroed in on you as the major problem and threat to his empire. More so than Barton or Natasha. He told me to encourage you to move on. If you continue to not to. . ." Stark lifted a shoulder. "Desperation makes even smart men reckless."

"That it most certainly does." He sighed. "Thanks for the heads up."

"Not a problem. I may need to keep myself scarce for a while, though. I'd prefer he still thinks I've not picked sides."

Rogers raised an eyebrow. "Hedging your bets?"

"Trying not to get a target on my back of my own." He finished the last of his coffee and shook his head at Syn when she lifted the whiskey again. "Had my fill of being at the mercy of merciless men."

"Fair enough," Rogers replied. "I wouldn't worry about normal saloon usage. His people come in here at night all the time."

That was true. And he did like to come have a drink. "Well, at least with the drive over I won't be stealing your deputy anymore."

He frowned. "I haven't seen him, I assumed he was still with you."

"He's asleep," Syn said from a few feet down the bar. "He wasn't doing much during the drive."

Stark and Rogers made little "Huh" noises in unison. "I suppose everyone is going to need some recovery time," Stark said.  
 "That's usually how it goes," Syn told them. "Things will pick up next week."

"Plenty of time for you to go make friends with your innocent maiden," Tony said. Rogers glared at him.

"Try posies," Syn said, propping her elbows on the bar top. "I hear ladies like that."

"Don't you start, too."

"I think it's adorable. Big strong man trying to save the poor innocent thing. It's like a dime novel."

"I'm not trying to save anyone. Or romance anyone." The strenuousness of his protest was very amusing. "I'm just. . . trying to help."

"That does seem to be a habit with you."

Whatever he would have said to that was interrupted by a soft, feminine, "Marshal Rogers?"

They all turned to see the frilly lady standing next to them. "I apologize for interrupting. Would you mind escorting me down to the church? Reverend Coulson told me where it was but I'm afraid my sense of direction is not the best." This with a pretty, self depreciating smile.

"It's not hard to find, but I'm happy to walk you." He stood, and tipped his had at Tony and Syn.

She slid her hand into his offered arm as they walked out of the saloon. When they were gone Tony turned back to the bar and Syn shook her head. "If that woman is as innocent as she pretends I'll eat a box of your nails."

He glanced back at where they'd gone. "What makes you say that?"

"There's a certain amount of acting to being a whore," she said. "Like recognizes like. Her reactions, her words. . . they're practiced. Calculated. She knows exactly what impression she wants to leave on people and designs herself to be that."

"Cunning does not make one a whore. You should see how society ladies behave." 

"I didn't say she was a whore, though I've heard mail order can be an option for those who tire of the life. I just don't think she's the innocent waif she's playing at."

He was quiet a moment. "Could she be working for Pierce?"

Syn looked at him thoughtfully. "She has been awfully interested in the Marshal. Not that he's doing much to dissuade her."

"Does she seem malicious to you?"

She frowned. "Not really. I get more. . . watchful." She gathered up the used glasses. "The girls and I will keep a closer eye on her. If something smells funny I'll let you or Barton know."

"Thanks."

"Girls will be up soon, if you're looking for company," she offered.

He sighed deeply. It might take the edge off. But he found he didn't have the stomach for it. "Thanks," he said again, standing. "Maybe another time. I better get back, check my inventory. The drive wrecked me."

She inclined her head, and drifted back down the bar.

He was looking forward to some quiet back at the smith, but he found Amanda Newbury waiting for him, pacing in circles and holding Barnes's metal arm.

This day was getting longer by the minute. "Problem?"

"It hurts when he wears it. And I wondered if you could. . . help."

He sighed and reached out. It would be a change from horseshoes and nails. "I've never seen anything like this, but I can try. Where does it hurt?"

"Where it attaches. It rubs his skin."

Turning it, he inspected the top, mind turning. "It's up so high, there's not much for it to grip onto. We could put in some lining, leather maybe, so it'd be durable. Something soft and thin. Ideally, I'd mount some attachment points into his muscle, but that's beyond my skillet. Doubt he'd be too excited about it, either."

"Probably not, no."

"Is he okay without it a day or two? I need to get my brain going and think on it. I can do the liner at least, should help."

She nodded. "He told me I could bring it."

Tony was already pondering and dismissing solutions faster than he could properly form the thoughts. "I'll come by tomorrow, let him know what I've thought up."


	14. The Gun That Won the West

It had become obvious pretty quickly that Clint was the best hunter in town. There was no butcher anymore—he'd crossed Pierce—and Pierce controlled access to cattle as tightly as he controlled access to the water. Clint thought it was stupid for everyone to scrabble and pay through the nose for beef when there was plenty of meat to be had for free on the prairie.

And just like that, he had a side business. He kept waiting for The Man to come down and demand his tax, despite the fact that Clint really didn't charge people. It was useful target practice, particularly with his bow and arrow. He'd almost forgotten how much he liked using that.

No taxman, though. Perhaps Pierce didn't want to pick a fight with someone who could shoot him through his bedroom window.

Clint's Whitworth rifle had finally arrived.

It was good. Really, _really_ good. Which is how he found himself coming home empty handed one morning a week after the end of the cattle drives. Nat was just opening the saloon for the early drinkers and the lunch crowd. "Nothing?" she asked.

He rubbed the back of his neck. "Ah, no. Opposite problem. I brought down a buffalo. Have you seen Thor?"

Laughing, she pointed generally south. "Fixing a window at the schoolhouse," she said with a knowing grin.

"Of course he is." He leaned over the bar to kiss her. "I hope you like buffalo, we'll be eating it until winter at this point." He tipped his head back. "I may need to build a bigger smokehouse."

"Well, talk to Thor about helping with that, too." It was said with easy acceptance. As if it was perfectly natural to assume they'd be here for winter and need more space.

Probably not the right time to think about that. He headed down the street to the school house on the edge of town. When he got there, Thor was carefully testing the mechanism of a double-hung window, Miss Foster hovering behind him watching. She saw Clint first and waved. "Hello, Mr. Barton," she called.

"Ma'am," he said when he reached them.

Thor eased the window down and turned to him. "Barton," he said jovially. Either he wasn't upset Clint was intruding on his school teacher time, or he was hiding it really well. "What brings you out here? Looking for me?"

"I was. I shot a buffalo, and I need some help hauling it in." 

His brows went up and Miss. Foster made a little impressed noise. "That sounds like a worthy cause if I ever heard one."

"I can't decide if we should haul it back, and then carve it up, or take a group of men out and everyone carves out their own hunk." He looked at the sky. "Whichever is faster, maybe, I'm sure the buzzards are on their way."

"If we can find enough men, it would likely be more efficient to spread the load. Though I'm concerned a mass exodus might get the attention of the mater on the hill."

"I had been meaning to talk to you about him," Miss Foster said. "I've been keeping an eye on him with my telescope."

Clint ignored Thor's scowl and turned to her. "Anything interesting?"

"He came back from the cattle drive with more men than he left with." Which, from what Clint understood, was backwards. Usually a good chunk moved on at the end, and most were temporary hires anyway. "And," she added, "In the last week, more have shown up."

He frowned and glanced at Thor. “Cattle hands?"

"Mr. Barton, I'm from Boston, I can't tell a cattle hand from any other random man riding a horse. But they are on horses, and they're armed. They seem to be setting up tents like they've overflowed the bunkhouse."

That. . . didn't sound good. He looked at Thor. "Should probably report that to someone on our way back through town."

Thor nodded. "I agree." He turned and smiled at Miss Foster. "I must take my leave of you."

She smiled sweetly. "Thank you so much for your help."

They started down the hill, and Clint noticed Thor glancing back several times. "Your brother was right, you know," he said.

He sighed. "About?"

"No one, and I mean no one, would dare mess with the woman of a man like you."

"In a physical way, yes," he conceded. "But it's become quite clear that this little war with Pierce isn't going away. Staking my claim on her while in the middle of it seems ill advised."

"To who? Our society matrons?"

"It would make her a target."

"She's watching him for us. She's probably already a target."

Thor glowered and glanced back again. "I'm hoping he's unaware of that."

"I'm just saying. You could help."

He made a grumpy noise that was more appropriate for a toddler than a man who could help move a buffalo. "I'll consider it."

"We've seen enough bloodshed and misery for ten lifetimes, Odinsson, and we're still in the middle of it. Take what happiness God gives you."

"I will consider it," he repeated, in a gentler tone.

They stopped in the saloon to tell Nat what Jane had reported and gather up a few more men. It was quite a gaggle of them that went out to butcher and haul back the meat. Clint expected there was a lot of stews in people's futures.

"We should set aside some for Nurse Newbury and her guest," Thor commented. "Healing is helped by good hearty food."

"Ah, yes," Wilson said. "The Marshal's 'girlfriend'." He leaned around the carcass. "Have you told your new sweetheart you're courting two women at once?"

The noise Rogers made through his nose was pretty entertaining. "You people are blowing that all out of a proportion." 

"I think the nurse can take the cupcake," Clint said. "If that helps your decision."

"I'm going to pack up some meat for her and Barnes," Rogers said. "And the rest of you remember, I have keys to the jail."

"He'll never take us all," Wilson muttered, packing up his share. "You should try to bring that poor dead man over for a trim sometime. Help him feel more human."

"And also less recognizable," Clint added. "He might even be able to go about town in the evening."

"See, now that's a good idea." Rogers looked at Wilson. "Stay open past sunset tonight?"

"I'm sure I can find something to keep me busy till the lamps light."

Once all the meat had been carved off, Thor helped him carry the enormous pelt and some other useful parts back to town. Clint got the meat in the smokehouse, save what they'd eat today, and then Syn came out and offered to help him prepare the hide. Since he'd never done anything bigger and hairier than a deer, it seemed like a good idea. It ate the rest of the day, and by the time they dragged themselves inside, he was exhausted. 

"We're going to really love that thing in the winter," he told her. 

"Nothing warmer than buffalo hide," she agreed. "I'll give the scavengers a couple days, then go back and see if I can salvage any of the teeth or bones."

"They'll have that thing picked clean in short order, they were circling overhead." He looked over at her. "What are you going to do with them?"

She shrugged. "Depends on what I find. They make good jewelry, buttons, knife hilts. Arrowheads."

That made him grin. "So they do."

"If you're very nice to me maybe I'll make you a few."

They'd gotten as far as the bar, and were sitting at it, each too exhausted to move. Clint was mustering the energy to go investigate something to eat, when the kitchen door swung open and Nat came out, two plates in hand. "Steak, anyone?"

"You're a goddess," he replied. Nat grinned and Syn just made an inarticulate, appreciative noise, holding her hands out for the plate.

Nat handed it to her, then placed the other in front of Clint. "You earned your keep today," she teased.

"Does this mean I don't have to put out tonight?" he asked.

"Eh, one night off. Don't get used to it."

"I'm sure glad I don't have clients anymore," Syn said. "For once."

"We're calling a meeting tonight," Clint told her. "Loki will be here, so you'll have to pretend."

"I can muster up some flirt." She cut a few pieces of steak and switched her fork to the other hand to eat them. "What's the meeting for?"

"Suspicious goings on at the Big House." The steak was delicious. He had no real need for manners, so he ate hunks off the end of his knife, a habit acquired during the war.

The ladies didn't notice or care, apparently. "Sounds exciting," Syn said around a mouthful of food.

Nat sighed a little. "I'll stash a bottle of good stuff in the office."

*

It was strange to be out on the street. Steve had dressed him up in some weird clothes and an oversized coat and hat, and smuggled him across the street in the darkness to the barber shop. It looked closed from the outside, but they went around through the back door, to find the shop lit by a single kerosene lantern. The dark-skinned barber was stropping his blade. "Hello, Sgt. Barnes."

"This is Sam Wilson," Steve said. "He's a friend of mine. Best shave and haircut you'll ever have."

Bucky scraped a hand over his jaw. "I'm a bit overdue."

"You look like a mountain man," Wilson said. He pointed to his chair. "Sit."

He sank into the chair and took deep breaths as Wilson gathered up his shaving supplies. Probably wouldn't be a good impression to attack him for coming near him with a razor.

"Would a mirror help?" Wilson asked. "So you could watch what I'm doing."

"It would, actually." A little of the tension went out of his shoulders. "Been a while since anyone came at me with a blade in a friendly way."

He turned the chair around so Bucky could see himself in the mirror on the wall behind the chair. "It'll be like that for a while." He put soap on Bucky's cheeks with a brush. "Been ten years and I still flinch when somebody cracks a buggy whip."

Bucky understood completely. "Sounds. Certain sounds haunt me."

"Smells will get you, too. A lot of men from the war say gun smoke does it." He held the razor up to show him. "I'm going to shave your face now, starting on the left." 

He nodded and held still as he started work. After a few strokes he relaxed further. He was save, among friends. Steve was right over there. Nothing to be nervous about. Wilson kept up a patter of conversation, mostly narrating the shave, so the silence didn't get to ominous.

Wilson was fast and efficient, finishing the shave and going behind him to trim his hair as well. "Pierce won't know you from Adam all cleaned up this way."

"I've always been a mess to him. I was a mess when I showed up." Pierce had been happy for him to remain a mess. It had taken Amanda forever just to pick enough knots out of his hair to get a comb through it.

"Probably helped him think if you as a weapon," Wilson said. "Not human. Just a gun to point at other people."

"I expect you have some experience with that sort of attitude."

He gave a dry chuckle. "Something like it. There's people in the world that don't mind treating people terrible and still think of them as people. But I think most of them have to tell themselves some sort of story. They're property, they're a weapon. It's okay to beat them or whip them, because they're not _really_ another person."

"We'll get him," Steve said.

"I'm of a mind to shoot him personally," Bucky said.

"That has a certain symmetry to it," Wilson offered.

"I'm willing to give you first dibs," Steve replied.

"Long as it gets done."

When the haircut was over Wilson brushed him of and whipped the protective sheet off of him. "All set. You're a new man."

Bucky leaned forward, squinting at himself in the mirror. The face looking back at him was one he hadn't seen in a long, long time. It made the present seem much more. . . real. He stood and rolled his shoulders, settling into himself. Even with the pinned up sleeve and shadows in his eyes he looked a whole lot more. . . him.  
 He looked over at Wilson. "Thank you."

"Dignity matters," he replied. "Reminds you nobody owns you anymore."

Bucky nodded again, then turned and held his hand out for the other man to shake. Wilson clasped his head, then looked at Steve and said, "I changed my mind. I'm in."

Steve grinned. "Glad to have you."

From the Barber Shop they went down the back alley to the saloon. Bucky felt nervous. He'd come to try and kill these people once. But Steve clapped him on his shoulder and assure him he'd be fine.

They skipped the main room, going through the kitchen to the little office where they were soon joined by the others. A couple of the saloon girls gave double takes when they saw him. "Cleans up nice," the little redhead Steve called Nat, commented.

"I'm sorry I tried to shoot you," he said to her.

She waved a hand. "Water under the bridge. We believe in second chances here."

Steve introduced him to the new people as they came in, though he was startled by one he recognized. One who worked for Pierce. He had an embarrassing urge to hide behind Steve. Instead he pointed. "You--"

The man held up his hands. "I'm Loki. I'm a double agent."

Before he could say anything in response, the door opened and another man came in, carrying a bag. "Oh, good, you're here." He strode right over, and reached for Bucky's left arm. Out of sheer instinct, Bucky punched him in the face.

There was a moment of silence, then the saloon girl sitting in Loki's lap said, "Well, that was really just a matter of time."

Steve came around to help the man up. "I'm sorry he's. . . this is a lot." He sighed and looked at Bucky. "This is Tony Stark, our blacksmith. He'd the one who's fixing you metal arm."

Well, that was awkward. Bucky cleared his throat. "I- sorry. A little warning next time."

"No, no, I deserved that. I was raised a spoiled brat, sometimes I forget my table manners." He pulled the arm out of the bag. "After the meeting, I can help you put it on."

The arm was cleaner and shinier than it had been in a long time, with new leather padding on the top where it connected to his stump. He peered closer. Looked like he'd replaced the elbow joint as well. He looked back at Stark's face. "Thank you."

He smiled. "You're welcome. It actually ended up dovetailing into another project I'm working on, and so I made some modifications I think you'll like." He looked around at the rest of them, then stage whispered, "I'll show you later, they don't need to see the magic."

"Got it," he replied, feeling the faintest hint of a smile.

The door opened and Amanda came in with Doc Banner. "Sorry we're late. Sitwell came in complaining of stomach pains. Sometimes I swear I don't know if he's really feeling it or just looking for-" She broke off abruptly when she saw Bucky, mouth hanging open.

The faint smile turned to a grin.

She crossed the room and stopped in front of him, elbowing Stark out of the way. "Hello."

He reached up and touched the brim of his hat. For a moment the war and the hell with Pierce and the nightmares were gone. And he was a cocky young man greeting a pretty girl. "Ma'am."

Her cheeks pinked. "Clean shaven suits you."

He rubbed his jaw with the back of his hand. "You think?" 

"Definitely." She cleared her throat, glancing around as if just realizing they had a very interested audience. "Mr. Wilson does excellent work."

"Thanks," Wilson piped up from somewhere behind him.

"He's already recruiting for the cause," Steve said proudly, punching Bucky in the shoulder.

Amanda's smile widened. "You had a good day."

"Yes." Better now that she was looking at him that way.

"Is everybody here?" one of them women asked. Maria Hill, owner of the general store. He knew that. She'd killed her husband with a frying pan.

"Yeah, we can get started," Steve said, all business. 

Amanda sat next to Bucky, close enough her sleeve brushed his, which he found utterly distracting. He had the urge to slide his arm around her but fought it, trying to focus on what was being said. They were discussing the fact that Pierce was apparently hiring hands at a rapid pace. 

"If he's placing advertisements, he's not doing it through the telegraph," Loki said. "Or the mail. He must be sending riders." He sighed. "If he's going around me, it may mean he suspects something."

"He may have some in person," Natasha offered. "When he was on the cattle drive."

"I'll go up there tomorrow and see what I can find out."

Steve nodded. "Tread careful, we don't want you to out yourself if he is suspicious."

"Loki is excellent at subterfuge," Thor said.

There was a knock, and Darcy stuck her head in. "Miss Foster is here. She's insisting on coming back."

"She should not be part of this!" Thor said. Steve gave him a look. Bucky didn't know who Miss Foster was, but a small woman with an armful of paper was pushing her way in.

Several of the men - including Thor - stood up to greet her. She barely glanced at them, spreading her paperwork out on Nat's desk. "I've been trying to keep better track of the comings and goings."

A couple of them leaned over the desk. "Are these. . .watch rotations?" Clint asked.

"Yes," she said. "Near as I can tell. I know you all tried to be subtle gathering for these meetings, but if I could tell, so can he. This—" she pulled out other papers—"is a rough headcount of his employees, including some notes as to their armaments best I could tell." She had a leather tube on a strap slung over her shoulder. It reminded Bucky of the sort they used to carry maps and charts during the war. She pulled a large roll of butcher paper out of it. "Best paper I could find," she commented as she unrolled it. "I thought a town and terrain map might be useful at this point. The key is there." She tapped a corner of the map.

At this point she seemed to notice most of the rest of the room was staring at her in somewhat stunned silence.

"What?"

"We're all feeling dumb for not bringing you in earlier," Amanda said.

Steve was inspecting the map with a remarkable amount of intensity. "This is extremely well done."

"I was a cartographer during the war. There was a half-baked scheme to survey by balloon and they wanted someone who weighed less than a hundred pounds, or I doubt they'd have ever hired me. I prefer charting the stars, I did a few for the navy, but there was more demand for this."

They were all staring at her again. "You floated over war zones in a balloon?" Thor asked finally.

"It was only a few times. Usually I was back at the office drawing from surveyor’s notes and measurements. Believe it or not, the balloon was less scary than moving out to the frontier."

Loki looked over at his brother. "Not so helpless as she seems."

"We greatly appreciate the help," Steve said, obviously trying to hold off a tiff between the brothers.

"I see what he does, and I'm tired of it." She waved at the map and papers. "So did I pay my entrance fee, can I stay?" Before Steve could get a word in, she added, "Don't look over at Thor, I take care of myself."

Bucky noticed Thor looked far more impressed than upset, but didn't comment. And anyway, Hill exclaimed, "Hell, yes, you can stay, and you should come sit by me."

"She'll tell you about her dungeon," Stark said.

Miss. Foster smiled brilliantly and took the offered seat. Steve studied the map a moment more before continuing. "Obviously things are escalating more than we realized. I want everyone to be careful and cautious, especially you," he directed at Loki and Syn. "At the same time, we need to keep our eyes and ears open to figure out who else might be on our side."

Some more minutia was discussed, Bucky didn't really pay attention. The room was starting to feel hot and crowded and claustrophobic. He didn't realize he was starting to fidget a bit until Amanda curled her hand over his.

He looked down at her and she smiled, squeezing his hand reassuringly. He took a breath and kept his eyes on her, and felt the panic slowly ease.

When the meeting broke up she held him back from the initial rush of people leaving. "The crowd will be overwhelming," she told him quietly as they stood to the side.

"I'm going to get my arm," he said, pointing to where Stark was hovering.

"Do you want me to wait or meet you back at the house?"

"Stay. I want you to see how it works." She nodded and together they walked over to Stark.

He showed them the new leather padding and the new fastenings, as well as the updated joints. "It's still not a real arm," he said, bending awkwardly over Bucky's back to refasten it. "But I think it'll be more comfortable and move a little smoother."

Steve had bought him the arm. He'd received a medal for heroics during the war, one that had been made of actual gold, and he'd sold it to pay for the arm. Once strapped on, he could use the muscle in his chest and arms to bend the elbow and move the fingers. In theory, anyway. It had never worked all that well, and had been uncomfortable to boot. He'd never wanted to tell Steve that.

Funny how he kept wearing it, even while working for Pierce.

But whatever Stark had done to, now it _worked_. He swung his lower arm, and opened and closed his hand easily. Stark gave a satisfied little nod, half smiling.

"Is it comfortable?" Amanda asked, peering at the shoulder with interest.

"Surprisingly so," he replied.

"The pulley system needs regular cleaning and oiling. I can show you how later. For now you should just spend some time getting used to it."

He nodded and Stark excused himself. Amanda continued to inspect the arm as Bucky moved it around. Then she took a step back and smiled. "You look happy."

"I am. Makes me feel a little more, I don't know, like an actual man."

Her smile softened. "I don't think there's any mistaking that."

He reached up to tuck a lock of hair behind her ear. Maybe someday he'd try doing it with his metal arm, even. "Most of the credit for that probably goes to you."

"I think you did the hard work yourself," she told him. "But I was happy to help."

He watched her for a moment. "What do you say we go home?"

She nodded. "Seems like we're done here."


	15. The Furies

Bucky stood, and was very pleased to be able to turn and offer her his left arm. She smiled and slid her hand into the crook of his arm and fell into step beside him. They had to wind their way through back alleys to avoid being spotted by Pierce. He was looking forward to the day he could walk the streets here without worrying about the despot on the hill. "I hope I get to take you for a walk in the daylight someday," he told her.

"I'd like that." She looked up at him. "Someday."

There was something he'd been thinking about more and more lately, since he'd begun to get better. Since he'd begun to feel human again. "I don't think I can go back. After this is over. Steve might want me to, or maybe he doesn't want to go either, but I can't go back."

Amanda's brow furrowed a little. "Back where? Back east?"

"Yes. New York, where we're from. I don't want to go back."

She glanced around the alley, then up at the sky, dark and speckled with stars. "The space out here can grow on you. I can see why you wouldn't want to go back."

"Well. And you're here."

That obviously surprised her. She blinked rapidly behind her glasses. "Me?"

They were at their—her—back door, but he stopped to face her. "Yes, you. You pulled me out of the darkness."

"That's not - I mean, I'm glad you're feeling better and are getting cleaned up and out and about but that's-" She blew out a breath. "I'm not enough reason not to go home."

“Yes, you are. And anyway, this feels more like home than anything back there does." He gestured at the building. And then he thought, had he misread her? He suddenly had an awful fear that maybe he _was_ just a patient to her. This was just a job. He fought the urge to hide his metal arm behind his back, like that would somehow improve the situation. There had been a time when he was good with women, but he sure as hell wasn't anymore. He could barely handle people. Tonight had proved that. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have—I'm sorry," he stumbled.

"Oh, no. Don't apologize. Don't." She reached out and caught his hands, both of them. "This is - This didn't feel like a home until I had someone to share it with."

He looked down at their hands. The metal one had to be cold and uncomfortable, but she was still holding it. "I like our life," he said quietly. "I don't want to lose it. I don't want to lose you." He huffed a little. "I didn't let a strange man come at my throat with a blade for _Steve_."

She laughed softly. He did love the sound of her laugh. It made things settle and calm inside him when she laughed. "You look very handsome," she said softly.

"I wanted to be. . . worth your time."

"James. . ." She lifted her hand to touch his cheek. "You are worth everything."

He felt himself smile. "Right now I'm regretting that my Mama raised me better than to kiss a woman on a public street."

It was hard to tell in the moonlight, but he suspected she was blushing. "Then maybe we should go inside."

He held out his arm. "Ladies first."

She headed into the house. The backdoor opened into her kitchen, lit only by the moon coming through the windows. She shed her coat and hat and lead him into the little parlor, where she'd left a lantern glowing to welcome them home. 

"This is better," he whispered, and then he kissed her. Her arms slid around his waist and they swayed a little, kiss blossoming into something hot and intimate. He plunged his hands into her hair, loosening and dislodging pins. He'd seen her in the middle of the night when he'd had nightmares, and now and again in the morning or evening, with a braid draped over her shoulder. But he'd never seen it loose, and had a sudden, desperate need to. A small bit of intimacy between the two of them. So he began pulling pins out of her bun.

She took them from him, tucking them away somewhere. Her hair was thick, a rich dark brown, and poured down to her waist. He ran his fingers through it reverently. "You are so beautiful."

He saw in her face she was about to protest and he gave her hair a little tug. She smiled and rested her head on his forehead. "Thank you."

"We should try to accept what we each see in each other as true. Hard as that may seem."

She stroked his cheek with her thumb. "It's good to have someone to see the best in you."

He returned the gesture, deliberately touching her scar. They were both damaged. Both broken. And somehow still here. Made him think there was purpose in the universe after all. "I want to stay with you."

Leaning into his touch, she seemed to search his face a moment. She must have found what she was hoping to, because she said softly, "Then stay."

He looked down at her dress for a moment, then said, "I don't have any idea how to even start with this thing."

She laughed again. "Come to the bedroom and I'll show you."

He nodded, and followed where she lead him. Her room was simple and held a solid wood bed. It looked to have very careful craftsmanship. He used to build things once, back when he had two arms. "It's nice in here."

"Thank you," she said, closing the door behind him. She started unbuttoning the front of her dress, revealing pale skin and creamy white underthings. "After being on the battle field it's nice to have somewhere private. A sanctuary."

He longed to help, but he had trouble enough with his own buttons. "It's safe here."

"I like to think so." She peeled the dress down and stepped out of it, laying it out over the back of a chair. She shimmied out of her petticoat, then started to work on her stays. He came closer to her, his hand finding the bottom edge of her drawers and tugging it up until he could touch the bare skin above her stocking.

She sucked in a little breath and he felt her shudder. Her skin was warm and velvet soft under his fingers. Her stays were tossed onto the same chair as her dress and she stepped closer to him. "I think you can handle the rest of it yourself," she whispered. 

He didn't dare touch fabric that fine with his metal hand, as he'd just as likely rip it. Instead he used his good hand to tug her chemise over her head. She lifted her arms obligingly and he made sure to put it on the chair with her other things. It left her bare to the waist and for a moment he just stared.

Amanda blushed slightly at the look on his face. "It's been a long time," she said after a moment. "For both of us, I'm sure."

"I had both arms," he replied. "But I feel confident we'll figure it out." He reached out rather hesitantly to cup her breast.

She sighed and swayed into him. "That's a good start."

He bent his head and nuzzled her mouth before he kissed her. He let his hand wander to explore her, the bumps of her ribs, the curve of her waist, back up the smooth skin of her back. She kissed him back, opening her mouth to the sweep of his tongue. Her hands found the buttons on his waistcoat, unfastening them to peel the garment off, then started untucking his shirt before sliding her hands under it to stroke his skin. He lifted his mouth just enough to whisper, "Let me take the arm off."

She nodded and let him go, and together they undid the many leather straps that made it work. He waited to feel self conscious, and was surprised to find he didn't. She'd seen him much worse. After she'd taken it to sit by her clothes, he pulled his shirt up over his head.

When she turned back he saw her start a little bit. She smiled almost shyly, crossing over to touch his chest, tracing the lines of scar. She bent close to kiss one of them, looking up at him through her lashes.

He didn't think anything had ever felt this right before. The two of them alone in their sanctuary. He tugged the tie on her drawers, until the bow gave and they slid off her hips. "Sit, let me take off your stockings."

She kissed his shoulder again, then obeyed, sinking onto the bed. Then she stuck out a foot and gave him an expectant, almost imperious look. He crouched in front of her and untied the garter, and then realized he couldn't really roll it properly. Hopefully she'd forgive him for just pushing it down. He bent to kiss her knee in apology.

Lifting a hand, she stroked her fingers through his hair. Her nails scraped lightly against his scalp, the sensation sending shivers down his spine. The second stocking went the way of the first and she stretched her feet, spreading her toes. "Much better," she murmured.

She was completely naked for his view now, and he slid his hand back up the inside of her thigh. "I agree."

Her skin flushed warn under his palm. She was so beautiful, pale and long limbed, with her own small collection of scars here and there. He traced them with his fingertips and his mouth. One on her thigh, another on her arm and finally the one that marred her cheek. He leaned her backwards on the bed, his mouth finding hers again.

She lay back and he covered her body with his, kissing her deeply. Her hands tangled in his hair again, bending her knees to cradle him against her. He realized he still had his slacks on, but for the moment, kissing her was more interesting. Balancing over her her was a little hard, so he rolled them onto their sides, allowing him to kiss her skin anywhere he wanted at his leisure.

It allowed her to touch him as well, and for a while they just explored each other with hands and mouths. It was a luxury he wasn't sure he'd ever really had. Time to just enjoy his partner, to learn every inch of her. He dipped his hand between her legs and found her wet, and she gasped when he stroked her.

He leaned back a little to watch her face, fingers moving slowly against her. Her breath quickened, mouth open and eyes glazed. "Good," she murmured. "That's . . . good." He kissed her lightly, then continued to watch her. She started to shudder and he shifted, sinking his fingers into her body to feel her come around them. 

He blinked in surprise and an odd sense of pride. He didn't recall it being quite that easy. She let out a long, slow breath and smiled, looking oddly flustered. "As I said. . . been a long time."

"Do you. . ." he cleared his throat. "Take care of yourself?"

The smile turned into a grin. "On occasion. Different when it's a man, though."

He really wanted to explore that. To see how many time he could make her come. Of course, this wouldn't be their only time doing this. So he rolled onto his back. "Come here."

She rolled towards him and they kissed as her nimble, nurse's fingers undid his fly. He lifted his hips so she could slide down his pants and smallclothes. They bunched up at his boots but there was no way he was going to stop and take those off, especially not after she swung a leg over his hips to straddle him. He ran his hand up her body, thinking this was the most perfect sight he could imagine. "Sorry you have to do all the work."

"It's all right." Lifting up, she positioned him at her entrance. "We can practice a different position next time." She lowered herself down, her wet heat surrounding him inch by amazing inch. He groaned, and it felt so good he had to close his eyes for a moment just so he didn't lose control.

She gave him a moment, staying utterly still and only moving again when he gave her thigh a little squeeze. Then she lifted up and back down again, settling into a steady, deep rhythm.

He watched her as the pressure and pleasure slowly built. "You are perfect," he told her.

Her fingers trailed over his chest. "So are you," she whispered. He could feel her growing hotter around him and her hips started to rock faster.

Slowly he was losing what civility he had, retreating into instinct and impulse. He bucked up to her, and his fingers tightened on her thigh. "Good. More." The command was practically a growl. He heard her suck in a breath, but she obeyed, riding him hard and rough now. Her head tipped back, hair spilling down her back to tickle his legs.

She gasped out something he didn't catch, then slammed down to him, shuddering and pulsing around him. It was overwhelming it felt so good, and he had no choice but to let her pull him along. For a moment the world narrowed to just the two of them, in their sanctuary.

He wrapped his arm around her when she sank down onto his chest. He heard her sigh in contentment, nuzzling under his chin. He brought up his hand to rub her back. "Thank you. I have never felt more human."

"Mmm." She kissed his throat. "You're welcome. That was wonderful."

He stroked her hair. "I'm sleeping in here."

"You'd better."

*

Laundry was one of Syn's least favorite things to do. It was long and exhausting and generally miserable. But some how Wash Day at the saloon had become a surprisingly tolerable group activity. After Fury died, Natasha had started taking in wash from others in town to help supplement their income, and it took the entire building full of women to get it—plus all their clothes and a brothel's worth of linens—done in time. 

The sweltering summer heat was starting to cool, making it less miserable outside working with tubs of boiling hot water, but no so cool it was miserable to be wet.

Thor spent most of every washday loitering in the saloon, coming out to haul water and fill and empty various tubs. He got his shirts washed and beer free for his assistance.

At sunrise, a big cauldron was filled and set to boil over a fire out back. Most of the girls were getting up, and Syn and Darcy were knocking on doors for the stragglers. "Are we asking Cupcake to come help?" Darcy whispered.

"You think she's ever gotten her hands dirty?" Syn asked her.

Darcy shrugged. "She was gonna be a mail order bride, she would have had to do laundry then."

"Good point. Well, can't hurt to ask, right?"

Darcy banged on her door. "Good Morning! Do you know how to wash laundry? If not, do you want to learn?"

After a moment, Miss Carter opened the door, tying a robe around herself. Syn caught a flash of incongruous cleavage and lace that was remarkably un-Cupcake. She filed that away with the other things that didn't make sense about the woman. 

The blonde smiled. "I do know a bit about laundry and desperately need to do some. I'll be down in a bit."

Darcy and Syn were headed down the stairs when Darcy asked. "Are going to have to watch our mouths around her? You know how washday gets." The girls got to telling stories and comparing notes, and considering what they all did for a living. . .

Syn shrugged. "It won't kill her. She's an adult, whatever she doesn't already know she should probably learn."

"Perhaps a review of the prick sizes and general bedroom skill level of all the men in town will help her better identify potential husbands."

"It certainly can't _hurt_."

Nat and some of the others were already getting started. "Cupcake's coming," Syn announced when they got there.

Nat's brows went up. "Well, that'll be interesting."

"Morning, ladies," Mrs. Hill called, coming around the building with her bundle. She and Amanda Newbury usually came to washday. None of the proper ladies were ever invited, but they were okay. 

They waved at her. "How's things, Mrs. Hill?" Darcy asked, holding out a coffee cup.

"Same as ever," she replied. She shook out her bundle and began putting things in one of the soaking tubs. She turned and looked over her shoulder with a frown. Syn turned, too, expecting Miss Carter, but found Miss Foster standing back there instead.

"I invited her," Darcy piped up. "We drank together last night. She's fun, she has war stories."

"We like war stories," Nat said, in a tone that booked no argument. She lifted a coffee cup and waved the school teacher closer. 

Miss Foster smiled and came towards them. "I've always wondered what you all did on these days."

"We tell whore stories," Darcy replied.

The first part of the day was sorting and soaking. It was easy and let them all wake up and enjoy their coffee, and the biscuits Nat went in to get out of the oven. Miss Carter came down in a far simpler and more practical dress than Syn had ever seen on her, and set about getting her clothes soaking. Daisy, one of the other girls, had started to tell a story about Mr. Pym and his very short, ah, attention span when Thor came out to move more water around and she stopped mid sentence. They tried not to shop talk in front of the men.

"Should somebody go check on Amanda?" Hill asked before the silence got awkward. "I've never known her to be this late."

Syn chuckled. "Oh, I wouldn't worry about her. I'm guessing she had a late night."

Her eyebrows went up. "Oh, really?"

She nodded. "I was out walking after our-" She glanced at Carter and amended, "After closing and noticed her light on. There were a couple of entwined shadows in her front parlor. I'm not one to peep, but they certainly seemed like they were just getting started."

"You'd think in that case she'd definitely want to wash her sheets," Miss Carter said, causing all of them to turn and look at her.

Her face was arranged into something benignly innocent. "I'm not completely naive to the ways of men and women," she explained at the looks on their faces.

No one challenged that, but Syn couldn't help but think there was a difference between knowing about what went on in a marriage bed—which maybe someone explained to her before she came to get married—and knowing about sex stains on sheets.

Before she could figure out a way to pursue this line of questioning Amanda came around the side of the building, limping ever-so-slightly. The rest of them put down what they were doing and started to applaud.

She stopped and put a hand on her hip. "How could you possibly know?"

"Whores have a sixth sense for this sort of thing," Syn told her. "Come. Spill."

"I had a very nice night," she said, with a deliberate, fake primness. She felt the tubs for the ones with the warmest water and put in her wash, clearly hers and his, including sheets. "I can't possibly tell you all anything you don't know."

"We like hearing about the mystery men," Nat said. There were a handful of them who had never visited any of the girls that were a constant source of curiosity—the good looking ones, anyway.

"Did he use the arm?" Darcy asked, prompting a smack in the arm from Jane.

"He did not," Amanda said. "Didn't need it."

"So it was good, then?" Nat asked. She passed over one of the plungers they used to agitate the wash. "Good for you."

"All three times were wonderful," Amanda replied, sounding just a little smug.

There was a moment of silence, then Miss Carter whistled.

"Has he been saving it up?" Darcy asked incredulously.

Amanda stirred her wash. "I was there when you all were betting on whether Nat would make six the day after Barton showed up."

"That was over 18 hours," Nat replied.

"Still."

"Five can not be a record," Nat said. "This is a whorehouse."

"I did seven once," Daisy offered. "Three guys though. God bless the Cattle Drive." Darcy stopped stirring to hi-five her.

"Multiple men shouldn't count," Miss Foster piped up.

Nat gestured to her. "I'll back that up. All of us have done multiple rounds on multiple men."

"Most men don't even have the stamina for twice. Somebody needs to bang the Marshall," Darcy said. "He looks like he could go all night." 

Miss Carter made an odd choking noise. Syn was close enough to hear it and glanced over at her, amused. "Volunteering?"

The Cupcake coughed lightly. "No. No - I . . . steam got in my lungs."

"He does seem rather fond of you," Nat commented.

Carter was now blushing. "I had. . . noticed."

"You could do worse," Hill offered. "He seems like an upstanding man." 

She cleared her throat. "I know. It's very flattering. I just. . . don't know what my future holds. I don't know that I can make him any promises. And he seems the type who would need them."

"Didn't you come out here to get married?" Darcy asked.

"Well, yes. But to a simple ranch hand, not a marshal. Does anyone know if he's staying in town?"

"People have started to call him the Sheriff. So maybe?"

"Hmm." She looked down at her work. "I haven't made any decisions. But I'm certainly not going to discourage the Marshal if he wants to pursue anything."

This conversation Syn was also finding interesting. Cupcake was clearly hiding something, perhaps lots of somethings, but her interest in Marshal Rogers was very genuine.

The women began the laborious work of scrubbing out small stains, and wringing their soapy clothes. Nat went back inside to get Thor to change the water for rinsing, and he came back out alone. "Miss Natasha was feeling a little overwhelmed by the heat," he told them. "She sat to have a drink."

Syn frowned and exchanged concerned looks with Amanda and Darcy. Without a word, they put down what they were doing and headed inside as the water was switched out.

She was sitting by the kitchen pump, drinking a glass of water. "You're like mother hens."

"You're never sick," Syn informed her as Amanda strode over and felt Nat's head, pinching one wrist to take her pulse.

Nat swatted her hands away. "I'm not sick. I'm fine."

"You're warm," Amanda pointed out mildly.

"Are you feeling all right?" Darcy asked.

"I'm feeling like I spent a little too long hunched over a steam bath breathing lye fumes."

The three of them squinted at her. "You're sure?" Syn asked.

"Yes." She put her glass down and stood up. "Look, I'm standing. How about we get back to work?"

Syn wasn't entirely convinced, and she could tell from Amanda's expression she wasn't either. "You'll tell us if you feel poorly again?" the nurse asked.

Nat herded them back outside. "I promise. It's not cholera."

The wash proceeded as normal, with things slowly being pinned up on the lines criss-crossing the yard. Syn kept an eye on Nat and noticed Amanda and Darcy take heavy loads from her a couple times, much to the madam's dismay. Syn rather liked how the girls all looked after each other. It wasn't something she'd had much in her life.

"I didn't expect it to be like this," Miss Carter said, startling Syn. She was pinning up a man's shirt a few feet to Syn's left with practiced ease. Syn supposed she shouldn't be too surprised. She was a proper lady, but she obviously wasn't wealthy. Regular people in cities had clothes and linens to wash, same as everyone else.

"Like what?" she asked. "The town?"

"Yes. Shopkeepers and schoolteachers doing wash with the saloon girls. People coming together and being friends, seemingly ignoring all sorts of social rules."

Syn smiled. "I've found social rules adapt to whatever society you happen to be in. Everyone needs to do laundry and it's a boring chore alone." She pinned up the end of a sheet and Miss Carter stepped over to help grab the other end. "You can forget about it sometimes, but we're all alone out here. One little group of people surrounded by a whole lot of nothin'. Sticking together makes sense."

"It's a nice town, underneath. It's worth saving."

She looked at her sharply. Miss Carter smiled back and it wasn't quite the blandly innocent look Syn had seen n the past. One of these days she'd need to get to the bottom of this woman's story.

There was a commotion over by the wash area. After the last of the items were rinsed, Thor took it upon himself to dump the last clean bucket of water over his head to cool off. Several of the girls went to ogle. 

"I hope Miss Foster got a front row seat," Miss Carter murmured and Syn laughed.

"We're gonna have to lock those two in a room together, I swear."

Mrs. Hill came over with the last basket of wrung out items to be hung. "Maybe she's afraid to bear his children."

"Oh, she's got decent hips," Syn said. "She'd manage."

Hill gave her a canny look. "Maybe she's hoping you go first and see what she has to look forward to."

Syn felt her cheeks heat. "I will not be producing any offspring anytime soon, thank you."

"Children are terrible. Needy, loud, and. . .sticky. I don't know by what miracle I didn't have any while Shithead was still alive, but I'm grateful." 

"Amen to that."

Miss Carter didn't comment, pining up a pair of lacy underthings and glancing down at her empty basket. "Time for lunch, I should think."

"Food and sleep," Darcy said, wiping her hands on her apron.

Miss Carter frowned. "Sleep?"

"On washday we all nap in the afternoon. We might have to work tonight."

The blonde mouthed “Oh," silently and scooped up her basket. "Well, can I help with the cooking at least?"

Darcy smiled. "If you cook as well as you wash, come on in. We'll give Nat a rest."

Syn took their empty baskets and shooed them towards the kitchen, before heading down the line to gather up the rest of the various bags and baskets. The crowd around Thor had dispersed, girls heading inside for food or to get a head start on their naps.

There was an odd traffic jam just inside the back door when Syn got there, and she had to peer around the crowd to see what the hell was so interesting in the kitchen. Which turned out to be. . . men cooking. Barton, Loki, Barnes and, for some reason, Doc Banner, were in the saloon kitchen making lunch. Syn, too, stopped so short that Nat bumped into her back.

She noticed Loki was making a concerted effort not to make eye contact with her. She propped her free hand on her hip. "What on earth?"

"Sgt. Barnes wanted to make lunch for you ladies. He does not know how to operate the stove. Neither do I. Barton is apparently banned from touching the stove after an unfortunate incident involving a grease fire." He waved his hand in the direction of Banner, who she realized was the one actually cooking things. Loki made a face. "I was merely delivering the mail, I don't know how I got roped into this."

Amanda was beaming bigger than Syn had ever seen her, making her way through the crowd to wrap her arms around Barnes. Syn was going to buy that man anything he liked for making her friend smile that way. Meanwhile, she put her stack of baskets down and stepped closer to Loki. "You sure you didn't want to try to do something nice for me?"

"Well," he said. "You _did_ wash my shirts. The least I could do is feed you."

She was probably now grinning as big as Amanda was. "It seems only fair."


	16. The Quick and the Dead

Steve heard about the men cooking lunch at the saloon after it was over, and was a little disappointed he'd missed the apparently hilarious disguise Bucky had concocted for himself out of Doc Banner's closet so he could go out in daylight without being recognized. But he was very, very happy his friend had decided to do so of his own volition.

A pretty girl would make a man do all sorts of things.

Such as pick flowers, for example. Steve didn't think he'd ever picked flowers in his life, but he'd ridden out to a farm just south of town to scare some sense into a couple of sticky-fingered field hands at the request of their employer, and had passed a patch of wild flowers on his way back. Somehow, he found himself stopping, and now there was a colorful bunch of them sticking out of his saddlebag.

To his great relief, no one saw him with them as he got into town and tied his horse up outside of the sherif's office. He should just toss them out, maybe into the alley where no one would notice them. Instead he found himself gathering them into one fist and walking purposefully towards the saloon.

She wouldn't be there. She'd be off on a walk or praying with Coulson or something and she wouldn't be there. And then he could ditch the posies without guilt.

He stopped outside the saloon door. There would probably be teasing, depending on what girls were in there. Natasha seemed quietly encouraging of his interest in Miss Carter. Syn seemed to think it was hilarious, and the other girls fell on the spectrum in between. Sam Wilson had pointed his razor at him and ordered him not to propose out sympathy, and would likely see the flowers as a sign he should wave the razor around more.

If Stark was in there, Steve would have no choice but to shoot him before he could even open in mouth.

The barroom was mercifully quiet. Nat and Darcy were at the bar, cleaning glasses. A couple of locals were at tables, eating late lunches.

And Miss Carter was at a corner table with her book and what looked like a cup of tea. She had gotten slightly less frilly compared to when she came. The town was starting to rub off on her. Bucky had even said she was at the laundry day.

He took a breath, reminded himself he'd charged uphill into Confederate artillery over a pile of dead bodies, and walked towards her. "Good morning, Miss Carter."

She looked up from her book and smiled when she saw him. "Sherif. Good morning."

He held out the flowers. "I saw a field of them, and I thought of you."

She blinked, staring at the flowers as if she'd never seen them before. Then she smiled brilliantly and put her book down, taking the little bouquet from him. "They're lovely." She looked up at him. "Thank you."

Steve sat across from her. "I heard you helped with washday."

"Well, I had my own wash to do. I had fun. The girls here are good company."

"You seem to be getting on quite well here."

"It's surprised me," she said cautiously, setting the bouquet on the table. "It's so different from home. But I like it."

"Thinking about maybe sticking around?"

She smiled, meeting his eyes. "It's crossed my mind."

She really was pretty. "Miss Carter, would you like to take a walk?"

"I'd love to," she said, tucking her book into her little purse and getting to her feet.

He ignored the look Natasha was giving him from the bar and offered her his arm. Out on the street he said, "Mrs. Hill might have some pie, if you were hungry."

"I had some toast with my tea, but I don't know that I could turn down one of Mrs. Hill's pies."

That made him smile. "Good, then." After a moment, he said, "Can I ask you a personal question?"

She glanced up at him. "If you wish. I may not answer."

"Fair enough. Why does one become a mail-order bride?"

"Oh. Well." She lifted a shoulder, looking a little shy. "A number of reasons I suppose. Because you feel trapped or alone. Because all your other options seem far worse." She glanced up at him. "For the adventure of it, a bit."

"Same reasons a boy with nowhere to be decides to sign up for the army."

"I imagine it's quite similar, yes."

"I hope marriage fairs you better than the war faired me," he said quietly.

She looked up at him a moment, then reached up and touched his hand with her gloved one, giving him a little squeeze. "I'm sorry." He reached down and closed his hand over hers. 

A noise behind him raised hairs on the back of his neck. This happened every time he talked or thought too much about the war. Suddenly every snapping twig sounded like the hammer cocking on a gun.

But Miss Carter looked past him and her face changed completely. She released his hand and reached behind her, fumbling for something at her waist. At the same time, she stepped closer to him, put a shoulder in the center of his chest and _shoved_ , knocking him on his ass.

There was the crack of a gun shot, then a second, louder one, followed by the thump of a body hitting the ground. 

He was sitting in the dirt, his brain not quite processing what he was seeing. There was a dead man on the ground, a bullet hole between his eyes. Miss Carter stood over him, smoking revolver in her hands.

There was a moment of complete and utter silence. Then she lowered the gun and looked down at him. "Well. Do all your strolls through town end in gunfire?"

He pulled himself to his feet, thinking about the various bits of commentary people had been muttering about Miss Carter that he had been—apparently stupidly—ignoring. "Who are you?"

She sighed and looked oddly sad. "Let's go back to the saloon and send someone for Coulson. I'm not explaining this alone."

That was an almost non sequitur of an answer. "The Preacher?"

"Oh, he's as much a preacher as I am a deb that faints at the sight of blood."

"I noticed that last part," he said, beginning to feel very foolish. Had she flirted with him to distract him? She was very obviously up to something, as apparently was Rev. Coulson. And, look, they were drawing a crowd. Dead body in the street and all. He couldn't tell if it was genuine suspicion or his wounded pride that prompted his next words. "You just shot someone in the street. Got a good reason this explaining shouldn't happen at the jail?" He rested his hand on the the gun in his belt holster, though he doubted he could actually draw fast enough if she decided to shoot him.

Calmly, she pointed at the dead man. Or, rather, just to his left. "He was going to shoot you. I'm pretty sure even out here shooting in defense of another is considered justified." She paused. "You're welcome, by the way."

"Thank you," he said, since she did apparently save his life. "Does cast doubt on the most obvious conclusion I could jump to, which is that you work for Pierce."

"I can see why you'd think it. And if you want to have this conversation at the jail, that's fine. But I'd appreciate the chance to change my clothes first."

Coulson had pushed his way to the front of the crowd and took in the little tableau. "What in the world is going on?"

Miss Carter looked at him and propped a hand on her hip, raising her brows. Coulson frowned at her, crossing his arms. She sighed and tilted her head.

And that seemed to win whatever silent conversation they were having. The reverend sighed and nodded. "Sherif? Perhaps some privacy?"

Steve pointed. "Saloon." He let them go ahead of him. Once inside a surprised Natasha looked up from the bar, as well as the few patrons. "Out," Steve said to them. "Saloon's closed." He looked over at Natasha. "Send one of the girls for Stark." 

She nodded and glanced at Darcy, who went running out the back door. The patrons filed out slowly and Nat closed and locked the front door.

Coulson turned to Miss Carter, who had taken a seat at one of the tables. "A shooting in the street? Is this what you call keeping cover?"

"He was going to shoot Rogers," she said, spreading her hands. "You told me not to let them kill him."

"Yes, but-"

"He's one of the good ones, you said. Let's keep him from getting himself killed, you said."

Steve looked from one to the other. "Okay, I'm lost, I'm angry, and I'm armed."

Miss Carter gestured at him emphatically and Coulson sighed and held out his hand. "Agent Phil Coulson, with the Pinkertons. We've been investigating the large number of unexplained deaths in the town for a while now."

Steve shook his hand. "Steve Rogers, US Marshals," he said, though Coulson knew that. He just wanted to remind him he wasn't a small-town sheriff. "Investigating on behalf of who?"

"Wells Fargo. In the interest of the safety of the stagecoach passengers, and their mail contract with the postal service."

Stark and Darcy appeared through the back. Steve glanced over and Stark came to stand by him. "And her?" Steve asked, pointing at Miss Carter.

"Sharon Carter," she said "Also of the Pinkertons."

"I called her in when it became clear something was going on in this saloon and I wouldn't be able to get inside it," Coulson explained.

He could see Stark’s entire body stiffen, and he looked like he might bolt out the door. "Who sent you?" he demanded.

"Wells Fargo," Steve supplied, watching the man with interest. His initial reaction to learning Steve was a Marshal had made him wonder idly if Stark was a fugitive. But he was clearly more alarmed by the Pinkertons than he'd been by Steve. Someone was looking for him, but it wasn't the law.

Carter had an odd little smile on her face, making him think she'd noticed the reaction as well. "I told him you guys seemed to be on the side of the angels," she offered. "We were trying to figure out how to join forces. Mr. Assassin just hurried up the process."

"I heard the gunshots," Stark said. "And apparently there's a body in the street."

"Anyone recognized him?" Nat asked. Stark shook his head. "One of Pierce's hired guns, I suppose."

"You must have him scared yellow," Carter told Steve.

"He clearly knows we're up to something." He looked at Stark, the over at Natasha. "Maybe it's time we stopped hiding."

Her brows went up. "Go to war?"

"You're already at war," Coulson said. "And he's building an army."

"Noticed that too, have you," Stark drawled.

"I'd have to be blind and deaf not to. The only question is how big it's grown. I've got letters out to all our agents to see how far his recruitment has spread. But God knows when I'll get responses. Certainly not in time."

"He's taken advertisements in papers in Abilene and Kansas City," Carter said. "He's not even pretending they're cowhands. Straight mercenaries. Men who fought in the war and can come armed."

"Must be paying well," Nat added. "Taking a shot at a Marshal is a dangerous prospect. He had to have made it worth the guy's while."

"Pierce thinks he's above the law. Or that his _is_ the law," Stark said. "Rogers is in his way. It would be worth a lot."

"If I could get out a couple of telegrams I might be able to get some back up," Coulson said. "But he's got the post master in his pocket."

Steve smiled. "I wouldn't say that."

He looked from him to Carter to Nat, who grinned. "Loki's out double agent."

Coulson blinked twice, then said, "I need to send some telegrams right now."

Stark gestured. "Come on, I'll walk with you, explain to him what's going on."

Coulson stepped towards him, then stopped and glanced back at Steve. "Are you going to arrest Carter?"

He folded his arms over his chest. "I'm not sure I'd win the shoot-out I'd expect to ensue if I tried."

The Pinkerton's face was the picture of innocence. "We make an effort to obey local laws whenever possible."

"No one's getting arrested. She did save my life, and we have bigger problems anyway."

He nodded. "Much obliged." He looked back at Carter. "Get out of those ridiculous frills."

"With pleasure."

Steve did his best to ignore the mental image that immediately conjured. He didn't have time to be attracted to her right now. He didn't trust her, and there was a war on. He turned to Natasha instead. "We'll have a meeting tonight. Everyone."

She nodded. "I'll send out the word."

*

During the ironing the day after washday, Nat had felt dizzy and nauseous. She tried to blame the heat. Syn and Darcy fussed, and made concerned faces. She didn't feel any better the next day, despite doing nothing strenuous. The following day, after the drama with the Marshal and the undercover Pinkertons, she felt so bad she took a nap in the middle of the day. Clint seemed worried now, but she promised him she'd just overexerted herself, and sent him on his way. Stark had asked for help with something over at the smithy. 

When she came down in the afternoon to find Syn and Darcy in the midst of dinner preparations for their "private party" at the saloon that night, they both stopped when they were doing to give her identical looks. She crossed her arms over her chest defensively. "It's not cholera."

"Well it's _something_ ," Syn retorted. "I've never seen you like this."

"You could at least let Amanda look at you," Darcy added. "She's very nice."

The smell of the stew bubbling away turned her stomach. She sat at the table and sighed. They weren't going to let this go. "I know she's nice. She'll help me if it comes to it." She'd helped a few of the girl over the years.

Darcy's brow furrowed but Syn caught on immediately. "It's like that, is it?"

Nat rubbed her brow. "Maybe? Everything has been so chaotic. Monday I realized I couldn't remember the last time I washed rags."

"Have you told Barton?"

She chuckled. "Ah, no. I don't want to alarm him unless I'm sure. Especially with all this shit."

"Would Amanda be able to tell?" Darcy asked, apparently recovered. "I mean. . . poking around and stuff."

"Maybe," Syn said. "Depends if she's done any proper midwifing."

"She provides medicine for. . .certain purposes, but Doc Banner delivers the babies." Nat got up again to get away from the smell of the stew. She had to admit, her symptoms were hard to ignore. 

"The medicines make you pretty sick," Syn said, stirring the stew pot a bit.

"I know," she said quietly. "I've done it before. Once the other way, too. Which can kill you as often as not." And was excruciating, though the Madam had paid for a doctor who had ether. She'd been a prized commodity, one the Madam hadn't wanted damaged. But she'd gotten sick afterwards, and from then on there hadn't been any more accidents. "I thought it damaged me, actually. That I couldn't anymore."

"I've seen that," Syn said. "Usually comes with monthly problems and yours never seemed worse than the rest of us." She smiled thinly. "Women are more resilient than we're given credit for."

"Seemed a blessing, in a way, given what I do. Did." She hadn't sold herself in in a long time. "That was more than ten years ago. Before I came west." She twitched the curtain to look out at the prairie. "The idea of me being a mother is a little ridiculous."

Syn chuckled. "I know what you mean." She paused, stirring the food again. "Though, I admit, now that I'm with Loki I do find myself pondering the idea now and then."

"I'd like a family," Darcy said. "Husband and hearth and all that. S'why I came out west. There aren't enough women out here. Back east it's hopeless, but out here. . ." she shrugged.

"I was sold to the Madam when I was nine. Any other sort of life never occurred to me."

"My story is well known," Syn said. "But I remember being a little girl and thinking I'd have a family. A man I loved."

"Not for nothing," Darcy said. "But it looks to me like you both have that. At least that last part."

Syn glanced over at Nat. "Barton doesn't seem the kind that alarms easy."

"No," she said. "He doesn't." He'd been barely more than a boy himself when they'd met. She'd been purchased by the man he worked for, and Clint had come to pick her up. When he got a look at how young she was, he told her he could help her. Instead of taking her to her client, he took her to meet Fury, and the next thing she knew, they were headed west with a group of escaped slaves. Whatever Clint walked away from to save her, he never mentioned.

It took them several years to get past gratitude and awkward friendship into something real and lasting. Now. . . she wasn't entirely sure what they were. Other than she was rather terrified of telling him about the baby. Potential baby.

"If it were me," Darcy said. "I wouldn't tell him until after."

"Don't even let him get a vote," Syn said. "If you're sure, of course."

"I meant after this Pierce nonsense is over with. If you aren't keeping it I wouldn't tell him at all."

Nat scowled and picked at an imperfection in the wood. "I'm certainly not telling him today." She looked at Syn. "You know those corn cakes you make sometimes?" She nodded. "Can you make me some?"

Syn smiled. "Yes, ma'am."

The back door swung open, and Sharon Carter came in, knocking her boots on the mat just inside to get the dirt off. She was dusty from a ride, dressed in men’s pants and a button down shirt. She stopped and smiled at them. "Good afternoon."

Syn and Darcy stared a moment and Nat chuckled. "Miss Carter."

"You can call me Sharon," she said coming further into the room. "Could I snag something to eat?"

"Stew's not ready, but you can have some corn cakes," Syn said, putting her skillet on the stove.

"That sounds delicious." She joined Nat at the table. "Did I interrupt something?"

"No," Darcy said. "Just shooting the shit." She looked at Nat. "We can swear in front of her now, right?"

"I think so."

Sharon chuckled. "I'm sorry about having to lie to all of you. It was really hard to maintain cover with so many people coming and going."

"I told you she was up to something," Syn said. She gestured at Sharon. "This looks honest."

"This is honest," Sharon told her. "This is me."

"You look more like our kind of person," Nat said. "We didn't really know what to do with the Cupcake."

"Oh, I think she would have warmed up to you all."

"So you'll fight with us?" Syn asked.

"Of course." She looked surprised she'd asked.

"Sounds like we'll need all the help we can get is all."

Sharon sighed and nodded. "Seems to be what it's shaping up as. Coulson's starting to get replies and I think Pierce has a lot more manpower than we originally thought."

At the stove. Syn dropped corn cakes into hot oil and they sizzled. They sat in silence for a few, before Nat said, "In a way I'm almost glad. Open warfare is at least honest."

"It's simpler," Syn agreed. "I was exhausted with all this sneaking about and remembering who knew what when."

Darcy pushed herself up from the table. "Speaking of, I'm going to go shoo out the stragglers and close the saloon for our Private Party tonight."

Nat thought she should probably help with that. But sitting at the table and waiting for her corn cakes sounded like a much better idea. "Thank you, Darcy."

Darcy squeezed her arm in understanding. Then she pointed at Sharon. "You look strong. Come help."

She grinned and stood in one smooth motion. "I love playing bouncer."


	17. The Magnificent (Slightly More Than) Seven

Once Nat had the corn cakes in her stomach she felt less queasy, and like she could face the crowd. Clint came home not long before everyone was scheduled to arrive, finding her out in the bar organizing glasses—and well away from the kitchen smells.

He dropped a kiss on the top of her head. "Stark is building artillery."

She leaned into him because he, at least, didn't make her queasy at all. "That should be helpful. Maybe I should start pulling some of the less popular alcohol. Make firebombs."

"What we should make sure we have is plans for if they set the buildings on fire. Speaking of fire."

"Mmm. I imagine we'll be a little busy to set up a bucket brigade."

He rubbed her back. "You feeling any better?"

Oh, that felt nice. She closed her eyes and swayed with the motion. "A little. Syn made me corn cakes. Hit the spot."

He kissed the top of her head, and she felt herself relaxing. They would figure this out. When she opened her eyes, people were filling in and taking up chairs. They dragged a couple of tables into the center, and spread out Jane Foster's maps. 

"I've gotten a number of replies," Coulson said. "It looks like he's got quite a bit of his army in place. I don't think it's unreasonable to expect some action on his part soon. After the attempt on the Marshal's life, he must be aware his window is limited to regain control."

"I've wired for reinforcements from my main office," Rogers said. "Coulson has done the same, but he'll expect that and likely make his move before they can get here. The Stage comes tomorrow. I assume he'll wait that out."

"So two days, three at the most?" Sharon asked.

Rogers looked to Loki. "Have you heard anything?"

He shook his head. "I'm not part of the inner circle any longer. He's suspicious of where my loyalties lie. Not enough to do anything about me, but enough to keep me in the cold."

"Is he really going to lay siege to the town?" Doc Banner asked. "What does that get him?"

"Fear and control," Mrs. Hill said. "He has a history of identifying the biggest threat in town, and executing them. Does a good job of quashing and rebellious thoughts."

"He tried to torch Barton and Natasha," Stark said. "It failed. He tried to threaten me and I didn't take the bait. He tried to shoot Rogers in the street and couldn't. He has to escalate. It's the only way to maintain the fear."

"It's the same as when he killed Fury and the old blacksmith," Nat said, feeling tired. "He's realized he missed a few and that maybe the presence of the Marshal and you newcomers has emboldened us. So now he's gotta make another example. To keep the people in line."

"Only this time he doesn't get to win," Rogers said firmly. "This time the war isn't one sided."

Stark rubbed his eyes. "I think most of us have had enough war." Dr. Banner reached over and patted him on the shoulder in sympathy.

"I'm not conscripting anyone," Rogers said, obviously sympathetic as well. "We've all done our part and more. But I'm guessing everyone here stayed for a reason. So any help you can give, from fighting to medical help to arming us is appreciated."

"I have armaments," Stark said. "And I'll fight. I just really want us to see this to the end."

"Yes," Clint said succinctly. "We kill him."

Nat reached over and took his hand, half expecting Rogers to correct him, insist on bringing Pierce in for justice.

Barnes spoke first. "Yes." Rogers looked at him. "I'm sorry, Steve. But some people need to be in the ground."

"I know," Rogers replied. "I'll do it."

"Several of us are better shots," Clint said.

Rogers pinned him with a look. "I'm aware of that. And if it happens in the heat of battle, fine. But I'm the one with the badge and if he needs to be gunned down in the middle of the street, I'm the one who will be best able to justify it."

Clint inclined his head. "No executions, got it."

"We need to warn the town," Thor said. "There are a lot of people who aren't part of this that could get caught in the fight."

"We need somewhere yo put them, too," Coulson agreed. "To keep out of the line of fire."

"The cellars," Nat suggested. "Ring the tornado alarm, people will know what to do."

"It's better than nothing," Syn said. "A warning, at least."

"I'd like somewhere safe to put the surgery," Banner said. "There'll be wounded, and I don't expect him to respect the rules of war."

"Will a cellar do? Or do we need to find somewhere outside of town?"

He turned, and he and Amanda exchanged a look that morphed into a silent conversation. "We can take a cellar. We'll need nearby water."

"Use mine," Wilson offered. "It's roomy enough and I've got the pump in the shop. Probably won't be as big a hotbed of fighting like the saloon would be."

Nat sighed and looked around while they discussed details. She knew it was a logical conclusion, but this was still her home. She didn't want it destroyed. She felt Clint squeeze her hand. He always understood.

"We'll keep it outside if we can," Rogers was saying. "Close quarters combat is a different animal, I'd rather not mess with it."

"The fact that we have cover and he doesn't is one of the few tactical advantages we have," Stark said. "We should use it."

"I'm saying we keep _them_ outside."

"Shooting from the windows," Syn said. "Sounds like fun."

"There's also the roof," Clint said.

"It works," Loki said. "It's very Agincourt."

Stark pointed at him in enthusiasm and agreement. Rogers turned. "Agin-what?"

"Agincourt," Loki repeated. "Henry V. Shakespeare, for God's sake. Didn't anyone in this damn town go to school?"

Stark held up his hand, then reached over and held up Banner's hand, too. Amanda made a face at the two of them. Then Jane said, "Henry V doesn't really go in to tactical plans, Mr. Odinsson."

He raised an eyebrow at her, then said, "Instead of meeting the incoming French army head on, the English flanked them with longbowman and mowed them down as they advanced. English lost a few hundred, French lost 10,000. William Shakespeare wrote a play about it. If any of you don't know who that is, ask someone else, or I'll never be able to look you in the eye again."

Syn reached over and put a hand on his shoulder. "Okay, that's your daily limit of asshole. You need to start rationing it out better."

Thor snorted in laughter.

Rogers shook his head, but looked amused. "Well. Operation Agincourt is as good a name as any, I suppose."

They spent some time going over the maps, and plotting out where Pierce's people were likely to approach from. There was a lot of open prairie that would give them no cover, so their approach would be very obvious from the town. It wasn't much, but it was something. They hashed out individual positioning, and then Stark rounded up some assistance from Clint and Thor to finish his artillery.

"You sure you're okay?" he asked before he left.

She looked up at him and for a moment wanted to tell him everything. But they were sitting here planning a war. It wasn't the time. He didn't need more on his mind.

After, she promised herself. She'd tell him after. "I'm fine," she said, "ready for it to be done."

He kissed her. "Keep the bed warm for me."

"Always," she said softly, watching him saunter out with the other men.

It was late and she was falling asleep when he crawled into bed. She snuggled against him as she drifted back to sleep. He was gone again when she woke in the morning. It was probably for the best given she barely managed to get the—thankfully empty—chamber pot out of the commode by her bed before she threw up.

This was looking less like a maybe.

She sat next to the pot for a few minutes, trying to breathe. Having real physical symptoms unsettled her, and not just because it was decades since she'd vomited. Real symptoms made it real. Made it a baby and not just some random fatigue.  
 When she was sure she wasn't going to throw up again she got to her feet and dressed to go downstairs.

Syn had the saloon open, and was serving breakfast to the handful of morning people. There was a plate of corn cakes on the end of the back bar, clearly for her. Sharon Carter was up, dressed like she was yesterday, with the addition of a gun belt, making notes in a little notebook. Thor was at the end of the bar plowing through a rasher of bacon. Darcy was up, to Nat's surprise, straightening glasses in what Nat knew to be her favorite dress. She smiled fondly. "Stage is early?"

Darcy looked up. "They have a watch rotation up at the schoolhouse. Sent word it was about ten miles out."

"So you'll be busy this evening?"

She lifted a shoulder and made a face. "Cal may not want to stop. They're so early, and there's, you know, the big thing apparently about to happen."

"All the more reason to sneak in a quickie." Darcy wrinkled her nose a little, but she was blushing rather adorably.

Nat took a hesitant bite of her corn cakes and sighed softly. She'd been rather afraid it would make her queasy. By the time she got to the second one, it was starting to actually make her stomach feel better. Outside she could hear the carriage wheels and the horses that indicated the arrival of the stage. Through the windows she could see what looked like passengers disembarking, including a brightly colored skirt emerging from the narrow stagecoach door.

A moment later the saloon door swung open and Cal Bennett came inside, mail bag slung over his shoulder. He still bore a little bit of a limp since the shooting, but was a sight better than he'd looked when Rogers and Clint had hauled him in, bleeding everywhere, that rainy night in the spring. Seemed like forever ago.

"Morning, Miss Natasha, Syn," he said. Then his smile changed. "Hello, Darcy."

She beamed and bounced on her toes. "Hi Cal."

He put the mail bag down and wrapped his arms around her, lifting her up like he'd just returned home from war. It seemed polite to look away. She heard Darcy mumble something like, "Are you staying?"

"Of course. I'm ahead of schedule and don't have any passengers rushing me—mine are all getting off here." He lifted his head. "Rich folk bought out the entire stage, through to Triskelion. I assume they're here to see your little tin despot." He noticed Sharon just then, and gave her a once over. "I see you've acclimated to town ambiance more quickly than I'd have expected."

She grinned. "This place has a way of growing on you."

Nat was still a bit slow on the uptake, but something about that didn't sit right. "Wait. I saw skirts. There's a lady stopping here?"

"A rich one," Cal said. "She brought her own butler."

Sure enough, out the window she could see what looked like an ocean of elaborately draped green taffeta as a strawberry-blonde woman in a fancy hat direct a man unloading trunks from the stage.

Syn leaned over. "On the eve of battle, Pierce orders himself a fancy courtesan from Paris? That's all I've got."

Christ, this didn't make any sense. The last thing they needed was another Cupcake getting in the crossfire. Chances are this one wasn't a secret spy.

Nat ate a couple more fortifying bites of corn cake and slid off her stool. "Come with me to greet her," she ordered Syn.

"Why are we greeting her?" Her tone was on the border of whiny, but she was already making her way around the bar.

"Because I run the saloon and are the closest thing to a welcoming committee we have. And you are there to take over in case I have to go cast up in the alley."

"I'm sorry," Syn said sincerely, probably about the casting up.

The saloon door opened and the woman stepped in. She surveyed the room before her eyes settled on Nat. She didn't look scared, or shy, and held herself like royalty. "Hello. I'm looking for Mr. Stark."

Her first instinct was to lie. Because it had become increasingly obvious that Stark was running from something and she was not going to be the one to snitch on him. But there was something about this woman that made her think any confrontation she was going to have with him would be _really_ entertaining.

She looked up at Syn and thought was was probably having a similar internal conflict. They had a brief, silent conversation, then Syn shrugged and turned on a heel to go fetch him.

"Syn will bring him here," Nat told the newcomer. "Would you like to sit? Have something to drink or some lunch?"

"Lunch would be lovely, thank you. And some whiskey. Bring the whole bottle."

*

The armor was perfect. Intimidating, and even deadlier than it looked. Tony's father would have been proud.

"I'm just saying, I think we should test it."

He glanced over at Barton. “I think it ruins the element of surprise."

"You really want the first time you wear it to be in a live fire fight? Let me shoot a couple arrows at you. In non lethal spots."

"If that will make you feel better. . ." He shrugged. You'd think he'd care more about his own safety. It was probably dangerous that he didn't.

Barton glanced at him, like he'd heard something in his tone he didn't like. Tony was pretty sure Barton had known more than a few men burnt out on war. "It will make me feel better," was all he said.

The door of the smithy creaked, and they both turned around in a hurry. Syn held up her hands. "Just me. The Stage came in early. A woman got off, and was enquiring as to your whereabouts."

Tony stared at her a moment. "A woman?" She nodded. "What did she look like?"

"About my height, reddish hair lighter than Nat's. Kinda snooty."

Oh. Shit.

They were both staring at him, but he was honestly frozen and speechless. Pepper had found him, and she'd come here. He assumed he could blame Pierce for the first part, but he couldn't fathom what had possessed her to come out here. It had been. . . how many years? Four since Andersonville. Six since he'd seen her. She should have been long married and off having babies.

"Is that what you were running from?" Barton asked. "Her?"

Swallowing hard, he nodded, too stunned to think of a good lie. "For a long time now."

Syn crossed her arms. "What did you do?"

Tony cleared his throat a couple times. "We were engaged. Before the war."

Syn looked like she wanted to punch him, but beside him Barton said, "When it was over, you found you couldn't go home. Couldn't go back to that life."

"Between the war and Andersonville. . . I wasn't that guy anymore. Seemed easier to leave. I figured she'd mourn and find someone new."

"Women are more resilient—and love is stronger—than we give credit for. Or are ourselves." 

Still, he really didn't think she'd come here. "What do I do?"

"March your ass over to the saloon," Syn said. "And see what she wants."

He glanced forlornly at his armor. "It might be to kill me."

"Maybe you deserve it," Syn said, and then made a little 'What?' face at Barton. She sighed. "She didn't seem angry. She was wearing a _very_ expensive dress, so is clearly not destitute, and she did not get out of the carriage with a small forlorn child. If she had, I'd have already shot you."

Well, that was something, he supposed. "Did she come with anyone?"

"Butler."

"Shit. He might kill me himself."

"Her butler wants to kill you?" Barton asked.

"I'm pretty sure it's _my_ butler," he replied. "He's overprotective."

"You have a butler?" Syn asked. "And a fiancee in a French silk dress that probably cost more than the saloon."

"And you went to college," Barton said, then gave the forge a very signifiant look. 

"I'm a complicated man." He sighed. "Right. Well. Making her wait won't improve her mood at all." He looked at Syn. "I'm gonna need some alcohol for this. Lots of it."

She nodded, and so they walked to the saloon, Barton and Syn trailing behind him. The stagecoach was parked out front, Bennett untying the reigns from the hitching post. He cast them a wary eye and called, "Mind if I go stable the horses?"

Tony waved his hand in what he hoped was an affirmative gesture on his way in. Up the steps and through the doors, and there she was, sitting at one of the tables, delicately eating soup. She looked, somehow, exactly the same.

They said redheads didn't age. He supposed it must be true.

Feeling a bit like he was going back to war, he walked across the room and stopped at her table. "Hi, Pepper."

She looked up at him, and then she stood. The whole saloon seemed to be watching as she looked him up and down for what felt like forever. He expected her to slap him. He certainly deserved it. Instead she reached out and wrapped her arms around him.

Shock froze him again. Then he embraced her back, pressing his face into her hair. She even smelled the same, the scent bringing up all matter of memories.

"I really thought you were dead," she whispered, her voice rough.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I just. . . couldn't go back."

He could feel her nod. Agreement, understanding, he didn't know. Then she straightened, looked over his shoulder, and in that voice of hers that he was pretty sure _had_ peeled paint off of the walls of some 5th Avenue mansions, said, "This is not a sideshow."

Tony turned, and saw that apparently half the town had piled into the front part of the saloon in the last two minutes, specifically to watch what they must have expected to be a shouting match. A number of them looked chastised, and when Pepper made a shooing motion with her hand, they began filing out. Marshall Rogers was on a stool, and lingered. "You're Anthony Stark," he said. "Of Stark Arms."

He sighed. "I used to be."

"This town is just full of secret identities, isn't it?" That was probably more a jab at Miss Carter than it was at him, but it annoyed him just the same. But then Rogers added, "I do feel much better now about the artillery you've built killing them instead of us."

"If you're too good for my builds I can melt them down and be on my way. Marshal."

"At the moment, deception worries me more than explosions."

Before he could even reply, Pepper let go and stepped around him, crossing the saloon and getting right in the Marshal's face. "I have been waiting to yell at him for four years. I have been been practicing it for two weeks while I got myself here. I'm sure he's angered you, because he does that, and I will let you say your piece. But I need you to get in line."

Tony grinned at the look on Rogers' face, but wisely smothered it when Pepper turned back to him. "I didn't deceive anyone," he said. "I told you my name. I didn't think my resume was required." He looked down at Pepper. "How did you find me, by the way?"

"A man named Alexander Pierce sent Mr. Stane a telegram informing him of your location. Mr. Stane actually burned it—that's something else I need to talk to you about—but Jarvis had seen enough to suspect you'd been found, but not where you were. He came with me, by the way." She pointed. Tony turned and waved. Jarvis looked like he wanted to hug him, but wouldn't dare. "He told me. I decided to hire the Pinkertons to look for you and they apparently already knew where you were."

He glanced over at Carter, who was pointedly looking at her book like she wasn't hearing every word. Sighing, he looked back at Pepper. "Should have known Pierce was spooked enough to rat me out. Though you couldn't have picked a worst time to come yell at me."

"Should I have cabled ahead so you could skip town?"

"That would have prevented you from arriving on the eve of battle. So yes, that would have been good."

She put her hands on her hips. "You're having a battle?"

"Yes. It's complicated. This is a very strange town." He heard Carter snort over in her corner.

She sighed. "Is there somewhere we can talk in private?"

The smithy probably wasn't the best place. He rubbed his forehead. "Nat? Do you have a room?"

Syn materialized at his side. "Nat's indisposed. Here." She handed Pepper a key. "Third door on the right. I assume her ladyship is staying the night."

Pepper took the key. "I do intend to stay, thank you. Does the rudeness come with the room, or do I need to pay extra for it?"

"It's free," Carter called from somewhere behind them. There was a headache forming behind Tony's eyes.

He gestured to the stairs. "Come on, just go before someone starts selling tickets."

"I'll wait here," Jarvis said. In a quieter voice, Tony heard him say, "Might I have a strong drink?"

Pepper went up the stairs carefully, as they were narrow and steep, and she was wearing a lot skirt. It seemed to take up half the room upstairs, but she managed to sit on the bed and drape it around neatly. "I shouldn't have to haul myself out to the frontier to confirm you're not dead."

"It never occurred to me you'd drag yourself out here at all. I didn't want you to . . . to wait for me."

"You just vanished. You didn't even send a letter."

He'd written dozens of letters. He just hadn't sent any of them. And it just would have made her find him sooner. "I didn't know what to say. It felt better to disappear."

"Perhaps something like. . .'I'm sorry, I don't love you anymore, and I'm not coming back.' Twelve words. And a stamp."

He shoved his hands in his pockets. "I didn't know I was never coming back. I thought I just needed a little more time. And I never stopped loving you." He paused. "I am sorry, though."

She looked down. "I deserved more than silence."

"Yes," he conceded. "You did. And I'm an asshole. But you also deserve better than the man who survived the war."

She got up and came closer to him. "I knew you were an asshole when I agreed to marry you."

"I wasn't. . . damaged when you agreed to it."

He could feel her watching him. "What does that mean?"

Self conscious at her scrutiny, he hunched his shoulders in something like a shrug. "When I sleep I have nightmares, violent ones. Mostly I don't sleep. If I stay in one place for too long I feel anxious and need to move again. And, apparently, I get involved insane battles against megalomaniacal cattle barons."

"Did it ever occur to you that maybe I'd want to come with you?"

"No," he said honestly. "I couldn't imagine dragging you all over the west."

She touched his arm. "Sounds like more fun that being in New York alone."

He sighed and reached up to cover her hand with his. "I wish I'd asked."

"I came here because I had to know. I had to see if you were all right. To figure out what happened to you. And maybe to slap you. For a while I really wanted to do that."

"I was rather expecting it," he admitted.

"Well, I might still do it. I haven't fully decided." 

"I suppose there's no time limit."

"I pictured us shouting at each other," she said. "And then somehow it would be better. Whatever happened, the air would be clear. I wouldn't have to wait and worry and wonder anymore. And now that I'm standing here, I can't remember most of what I wanted to say."

He lifted a hand and tucked a loose lock of hair behind her ear. "You could wing it. I'll wait."

She turned her face into the touch. "I just. . .I just missed you. I don't want to be angry at you anymore. I can't carry it."

"Does that mean you forgive me?"

"I suppose it does," she said quietly.

"I love you," he told her, voice cracking a little.

She reached up and ruffled her fingers through his hair. It was as familiar a gesture as any he could remember. She'd done it since they were children. She'd done it the last time he saw her, just before he boarded the train south into hell. "You've always been damaged, and I've always loved you. You're all I have."

"I don't think I can ever live in New York again. It's too loud, too crowded. I feel like I'm drowning."

Pepper smiled. "Then we make a life out here. Or anywhere we want."

He was surprised by how much that appealed. If there was one thing this crazy town and its inhabitants had taught him it was that people needed company. "All right," he said quietly.

"Plus I stole a bunch of money from your uncle on the way out, so I probably shouldn't ever go back to New York."

Tony opened and closed his mouth a few times. "I - might need you to explain that one."

"It's kind of a long story. And clearly you have a long story to tell me—something about a war and a cattle baron. And you being the town blacksmith."

"I'm a very good blacksmith," he felt compelled to point out.

"Does it make you happy?"

The question surprised him, but not as much as his answer did. "Yes. I like it a lot.”

"Then you can shoe horses and make nails and I'll learn how to cook and sew, and we'll live like normal people. No ballrooms, no calling cards, no snobbery. No crowds."

The relief he felt at her words, at the thought of that kind of life, was like a drug. "Can we stay here? Assuming there's still a town in a couple days? They're not that rude once you get to know them."

"Honey, I can handle rude. I just need you to promise you aren't going to up and vanish in the middle of the night. 

"I promise. Not without you, anyway."

She wrapped her arms around him again, and this time he didn't mind all the things her scent made him think of. Most of them he'd get to keep. "I am going to require you make an honest woman out of me," she murmured against his neck.

"I'd do it right now but the town reverend is kind of a sham." He kissed her shoulder. "I wonder if the Marshal can do it. Like the captain of a ship."

She sighed happily. "We'll find someone." Her arms tightened. "Thank you."


	18. Bullet for a Badman

Under the cover of darkness, they emptied the cellar under the barbershop, and moved supplies and furniture down there to set up the surgery. Amanda was impressed with the space available, considering the size of the building above.

"This town as an excessive amount of cellars," James commented as he and Thor re-assembled the table they'd had to take apart to get down the narrow steps.

"The one housing Mrs. Hill's armory under the General Store is also enormous," Thor said in agreement. "Tornadoes?"

Barton came by with a box of rolled bandages. "That's the cover story. Before Pierce, before the war, this town was a major stop and holding station for the Underground Railroad." 

"Is that how Mr. Wilson came to be here?" Amanda asked. "I'd always thought it was a rather strange place to end up."

"That's probably true of every one of us," he replied. "But as for Wilson, I don't really know since he was here before I was. The Railroad is how Nat and I got here, though."

James and Thor both looked over with interest. "Did you work the Railroad?" Thor asked.

"Indeed," he replied. "Out of Louisiana. I worked on a steamboat as a kid, and we'd smuggle stowaways on in a crate. Then I had to actually use it to get Nat out of New Orleans. We landed here and then mostly I dug cellars."

"Why did Nat need to get smuggled?" James asked. Amanda had a suspicion - there weren't a lot of secrets among women, especially when one was acting as the other's doctor - but she kept her mouth shut to see what Barton said.

Barton looked at him for a moment, like he was trying to decide what to say. He probably was. "Somebody thought they owned her. Somebody evil. I begged to differ." His mouth quirked. "Though I hear you're not supposed to speak ill of the dead."

She saw James's shoulders tighten a little, and moved over to touch his hand. He wove his fingers into hers. "Well, that's something I can understand," he said finally.

Barton nodded. "You'll get to spit on his corpse soon enough."

His fingers tightened on hers. "Gotta admit I'm looking forward to that."

That got a nod from Barton, and he turned and went back upstairs. James and Thor flipped the table over and Amanda went to test its sturdiness. Behind her, Doc Banner had come down into the cellar. He bumped his shoulder against hers. "Tell me this doesn't remind you a little of Gettysburg. Setting up in the college buildings. Operating on the lab table. No windows to toss limbs out of this time." He glanced over at James. "Sorry."

He gave a crooked smile. "It's fine. If she'd have cut it off, she'd have done it right the first time."

"That is true," Amanda said, organizing the box of bandages. "Fastest saw in the war."

"You might not want to be down here when we unpack the equipment and get the table set up," Banner said to James.

He looked over at her and she nodded slightly. "Considering how prone you are to triggers I think it would be a good idea. I'm sure Steve and the others need help."

Reluctantly, he nodded, then stepped over and kissed her, right in front of the others. "I'll see you later."

"Be safe," she said softly. He smiled and made his way up the creaking steps.

Thor followed him, and then Banner said, "Honest to God, Newbury, I think you've smiled more in the last couple of weeks than in the entire time I've known you."

Going back to her bandages, she didn't bother trying to hide her current smile. "He makes me happy. Our demons get along."

"Good. Good, I'm happy for you."

She glanced over at him. "I was worried you might be. . . upset. It's been just us for a long time."

He chuckled. "You know I did survive for quite a number of years before I met you."

"I think the key word is, survive." She joined him at the table as he lifted his bag of tools onto it and they started to unpack. "Though I suppose you haven't had an attack in a while."

"Has been a while. Though God knows what this will stir up."

They were quite the powder keg, she thought as she pulled her saw out of the boiled leather bag. It felt oddly comfortable in her hand. "At least the battle will be quick, one way or another."

He nodded, though he'd know as well as her that quick for the combatants didn't necessarily mean quick for the surgeons. "So what about after?" he asked. "Assuming there's a habitable town left standing." 

"James doesn't want to go back East and I never had any intention to leave. So, I suppose we'll stay. Maybe get some land. Or a shop, if he can figure out how to build furniture with the arm. Which-" She gestured to the surgery table. "He's getting better at."

"I did notice that. Probably helps he had it rebuilt by probably the best mechanical engineer in the country."

And it was all coming very natural, she'd noticed. He no longer thought about it or hesitated before attempting things. He was even growing more comfortable touching and holding her with it. Not that she was sharing that with Banner. "I think we could have a good life."

"You _deserve_ a good life."

She studied the row of tools lined up on the table and felt an old, familiar twist in her stomach. She took a deep breath and shook it off. "I think I do. We all do. Except for Pierce."

He chuckled. "If we all survive, maybe I'll get myself a mail-order-bride."

"I don't know if they all look like the Cupcake," Amanda teased.

"Yeah, well, I don't look like Marshal Rogers, so it's probably square."

She looked at him seriously. "I hope you do find someone. You're a good man."

"Ah, now, don't take a joke and make it serious." He leaned over to shift the tools around to his liking. She was the fastest saw in the west, so to speak, but he was a master surgeon at little, delicate things. Occasionally a battle had been light, or an officer had been wounded, and she'd seen him save men with impossible gut shots, with head injuries, with punctured lungs. Save a General who'd been shot through the eye and the Union army would put up with occasional bouts of madness. Once they'd started working together, their field hospital consistently tracked some of the highest survival rates in the war.

"I'm a very serious person. People tell me that all the time. No sense of humor. Grim as the grave."

"I think that's why I like you." He patted her shoulder. "I'm going to go get the rest of the morphine I hid from Sitwell."

She nodded. "I'll finish setting up here, then go see if the ladies need help before heading home."

He got to the stairs, then stopped and turned back. "Amanda."

She didn't remember the last time he'd called her by her first name. They had been Newbury and Banner or Nurse and Doc for years now. She swallowed hard. "Yes, Bruce?"

"If I go, you know—" He whistled and twirled his finger near his temple— "Send me upstairs. Might as well point that at the bad guys."

It felt a bit wrong, using him like a weapon. But he had a point and he wouldn't be any use down here. "I will. Is there someone up there you think you'll listen to?"

"I. . . You know, I don't know. Maybe Natasha. Or it's possible training will kick in and I'll take orders from Rogers. It'll be a fun experiment."

"I suppose it will," she agreed, making a mental note to talk to Nat and the Marshal about this. "I'll see you later, Bruce."

He ducked his head in acknowledgement, and then went upstairs.

 Amanda finished sorting and organizing, finding a clear quiet place inside her she needed to be in to do this. When it was done and she felt settled she headed back upstairs and down the block to the saloon. Minimum, she probably needed a drink.

*

It was fortunate that Clint had the watch that night. They took turns watching from the telescope in the small belfry that had been built on top of the school house, which itself was on a small rise. It was the best view in town. Clint had the best eyesight in town. Pierce's hired guns made an attempt to be discrete as they geared up, and he wasn't sure any one else might have noticed it. Except perhaps Miss Foster, who didn't take a full night watch because she still had to teach school in the morning.

He had a line of sight to the Marshal's office. He didn't know who was in there tonight on the street watch, but knew someone would be. The lamplight was dim but visible.

They'd made arrowheads from the buffalo bones with a little hollow inside where he could put notes, enabling him to send message over distances in an emergency. They were only of use to him and Syn, of course, but still handy. He wrote a note about the activity up at the big house, and shot it straight through the partially-opened window. 

There was a pause, then the lamp brightened and dimmed in a pattern. Clint's Morse code was a little rusty, but he got the gist and came down, heading to the saloon where they were to meet up. 

There he found the usual suspects doing their own gearing up. They'd carried most of the small arms over from Hill's basement over the last few nights. Stark had brought his offerings over in buckets and covered canvas when he came for meals.

Some of the equipment was surprisingly medieval. Mrs. Hill had a sword. Rogers had a shield, of all things. Stark had built himself an actual suit of armor, upon which he had improbably mounted what looked like a miniature Gatling Gun. It looked damn near suicidal to wear, though perhaps less likely know that he knew its maker was in fact a master gunsmith.

He would be going medieval as well, as he'd decided to fight with his bow and arrows. He'd given his Whitworth to Barnes, who was reasonably concerned about his ability in hand to hand combat with his arm, and as good a sharpshooter as Clint anyway. His Henry, he gave to Natasha.

She was standing at one end of the bar, stacking ammunition. She'd been looking kind of pale lately, and sleeping more. He was hoping it was just worry and stress about this whole mess. 

When it was over, they needed to talk. He'd sent inquiries out to the neighbors of the farm he'd bought in Pennsylvania, asking if anyone wanted to buy his land. He'd gotten the final telegram just yesterday, and expected his money with the next stage. Assuming they both survived, they had a future to figure out.  
 When he reached her, she looked up and smiled. "How are you doing?"

"As ready as I'll ever be, I suppose." He studied her face. She looked exhausted. "How are you feeling?"

Her mouth twitched a little. "Like I'm as likely to vomit on the bad guys as I am to shoot them."

He frowned in concern. "You want to go down in the cellars with the girls?"

She shook her head. "No. I'm all right. I'd rather be up here."

He reached and closed his hand over hers, small and warm beneath his fingers. "Promise me you'll be careful."

"I promise," she said sincerely. "You do the same."

Clint leaned over to kiss her temple. "I promise. I'm not dying for this damn town."

"Good." She slid her arms around his waist and leaned on him. "It'll be all right."

Rocking her a little, he closed his eyes. "I hope so."

She sighed and they just held each other for a while. "We have a lot to talk about at the end of all this," she said finally.

"I agree with that wholeheartedly. But we will talk about it." He tipped her chin up so she'd look at him. "Do you believe me?"

Meeting his eyes, she said, "Completely."

He glanced at the crowd, then back at her. "I want today to be the last day I kill anybody."

"Agreed. I'd like a nice, quiet life with you. Whatever we decide to do with it."

Behind him the door swung open, and Thor and Wilson came in. "Sitwell and the other few sympathizers are locked away in the jail. For their own safety."

"Thank you," Rogers said with a smile. He turned to survey the packed saloon. Clint watched him count heads and weapons. He frowned at some of the women—like Darcy—who he clearly thought should be in the cellars instead of arming up. Clint expected that was because he'd never seen Darcy shoot. Miss Carter was milling about as well, wearing men's trousers and armed to the teeth. Rogers stopped his survey to stare at her.

This were the most bizarre circumstances possible to fall in love under, but Clint was glad he at least wasn't alone. 

"All right," he called, his voice loud enough to command attention. "We're about to ring the tornado alarm. All hell will probably break loose not long after that. I know many of you know _exactly_ what that looks like." He glanced over at Barnes, then back at the crowd. "The Union Army didn't have a whole lot of respect for the Irish immigrants that made up my brigade. Whatever was the most dangerous, desperate, or impossible action needed for any given battle, that was where they put us. Even when they fell, and a lot of them did, my men never let me down. I think you all have the same sort of lunatic courage. And they're mercenaries, hired and fighting for a handful of coins. We're fighting for the safety and freedom of everyone in this town. For each other. In war, loyalty is as powerful as artillery sometimes. Watch each others’ backs."

Barnes added, "We'll be spitting on his corpse soon enough," and it made Clint smile.

"Snipers to your posts," Rogers said. 

Nat caught Clint's collar and tugged him down for a kiss. "I'll see you later."

He patted the Henry. "Take good care of my baby."

"I promise." She gave him a sweet smile. "Watch my back."

"Always," he replied.

"Barton," Rogers called, and the storm bells began to ring.

He nodded and jogged for the stairs. When he passed Syn and Loki saying their goodbyes he heard her say, very firmly, "And don't shoot your brother." before she scooped up her quiver and joined him on his way up to the roof. 

Once in position, Clint squinted into the distance, watching the approaching cloud of dust that was a group of men on horseback. "You make good arrowheads," he commented to her.

"Thank you," she said, fiddling with her notched arrow. "I think it's because I have small hands, better for fine work."

"Is that why women are so good at needlework?"

"Probably." She shifted, resettling into a solid kneeling position and peered at the dust cloud. "Think we have a shot at this?"

"I don't know." He kicked the dust the double check the wind, then leaned back and aimed his bow at the sky. The arrow flew, and a moment later a body tumbled out of the dust cloud. "Maybe."

Shaking her head, she muttered, "Show off." She sighted down her arrow at the group on the horses. "Do me a favor? Let me know if you noticed Loki about to do something stupid."

"He doesn't seem like a run-into-the-canons type of guy."

Across the street from the top of the back, the crack of his Whitworth echoed, and another body dropped. There were now two loose horses, and the riders began spreading out in panic. That was lack of training in evidence right there. The dust cloud thinned, presenting more visible targets. Barnes picked another one off, as did Clint.

Syn loosed her arrow, taking out a third, and she notched a new one. "He feels he has things to make up for. From the war. I don't want him to get ideas in his head." Her second arrow flew the same time Bucky's gunshot split the air again. "Heat of battle. Men get stupid."

Clint couldn't disagree. "Don't put yourself in danger, that will probably help." He could see the approaching riders alternately spread and clump together, like they were unsure what to do. Like they were panicking. They'd expect to still be out of shot range, and the inexplicable arrows in addition to the bullets had to be causing alarm. People thought arrows meant indians, and he could see them looking over their shoulders like there was an additional front of attack.

Good. Panic made people stupid.

From below, he heard three shots in too close a succession to be anything but the Henry, and another body dropped. "That's my girl."

Some of the riders broke off to go behind the buildings, presumably for cover. Syn scooped up her stuff and moved to the other corner of the roof to keep an eye on them, while Clint stayed with the main group. "They should have carnival games like this," she commented, leaning out almost dangerously far to pick someone off.

Clint cupped his hands around his mouth to shout across the street, "Barnes! Herd them into the middle!" He got a wave of the metal arm in reply, and they began shooting at the edges, sending the majority of the group down the center of the street as they hit town. A moment later, he heard the rattle of Stark's gatling gun, and then the street below was pandemonium of rearing horses, screaming, shouting, and gunshots.

Behind him, Syn cursed and leapt back from the edge of the roof. "I got spotted," she warned. She rummaged in her bag, pulled out one of the fire bombs the girls had rigged up with rags and alcohol, lit it, and dropped it over the side. Clint could hear the panic and screaming and a moment later more men flooded the main street, escaping the fire. 

Syn joined his side and peered over the edge. "I'm glad I'm up here."

He tilted his head, "Is that the blind lawyer fighting with a metal bar?"

She leaned over his shoulder to follow his gaze. "Oh. Don't worry about him. He can take Thor in a fight."

Clint shook his head. This was a weird town. "Getting a clear shot is hard," he said. "I think I'm going down. Keep picking them off."

She nodded. "Be careful," she tossed over her shoulder as he headed for the stairs.

He went to the front bedroom where Nat was shooting out the window, just to check on her. She had good cover and her body positioned at an angle where it would be hard to hit her from the street if anyone shot at the window. The glass on the top part of the window was shattered and there were bullet holes in the moulding, so clearly they'd tried. He took the opportunity to shoot an arrow out the window. "You okay?" he asked her.

"Just fine," she said, She glanced up at him. "You?"

"Good. We're holding our own." The building shook, clearly they were trying to breach the heavily-barricaded door downstairs. "I should get down there, you good for ammo?"

She glanced down at her pile and nodded sharply. "I think so. Wish I was down there with you but. . . probably not a good idea." She caught his hand and squeezed it. "Happy hunting."

He frowned a moment—she was actually excellent and hand-to-hand fighting. He knew because he taught her. She was the one who'd taken down Barnes. If he were being objective, he ought to tell her she could come down if she wanted to. She'd be of use. But he was honestly happier she was staying up here, even if the 'why' niggled at the back of his brain. So instead he kissed her. "I love you. Keep shooting."

That earned him a sharp edged smile and she turned back to the window. He heard the Henry as he continued for the stairs.

Downstairs was organized chaos. He saw Darcy and Sharon Carter manning the front windows, likely picking off stragglers and making the rest think twice about getting the doors open. Rogers, Stark and the other heavy hitters were likely out on the street, taking out who they could. He was pretty sure running Stark's suit of armor inside would leave everyone deaf.

Bennett was guarding the back door, and Clint was surprised to see him. "Why are you still here?" he called over the din. "Where's the Stage?"

"Behind the smithy. And I'm here 'cause she's here," he added, pointing in Darcy's direction. Simple as that. God knew Clint understood that. "Mr. Stark offered me a job," he added.

"In the middle of all this?" Clint asked, and the man shrugged. Then he ducked back so Clint could get out the back door. He shot a man creeping down the alley, and headed out into the main fight.

*

As revolvers ran out of bullets, the street descended into a massive brawl, with knives and fists and makeshift objects. Steve was surprised at how useful the damn shield was, both as temporary cover, and as a weapon itself. The scene was so overwhelmingly reminiscent of the war that he could practically hear cannons that weren't booming. The smells of gun smoke and blood were real enough. 

It had been obvious by the size of the dust cloud how outnumbered they had been at the start, and their opponents were on horseback. But then he'd seen entrenched artillery mow down large numbers plenty of times, and sure enough their guns thinned the numbers to a fair fight on the long, flat ride in. 

He saw glimpses of the rest of them in the fray. Thor throwing a horse trough. Mrs. Hill nearly decapitating someone with that sword. Stark was impossible to miss, his gatling gun arm empty and now spewing fire from some attachment on the other side. He's be lucky if he didn't cook himself.

Loki seemed to be in multiple places at once, moving through the battle, taking out enemies from behind and helping others when they got overwhelmed. It was entirely different fighting style than his brother, but just as brutally effective. Wilson had parked himself at Steve's side, shooting with calm, steady aim. 

He saw when Barton materialized, but men still dropped from arrows to the neck or bullets no one saw coming. Though he glanced up a few times, he couldn't spot Syn or Bucky, but was extremely glad they were there.

There was a shout behind them, and someone threw a person—or perhaps a dead body—into the three men in the process of cornering Mrs. Hill. He glanced back expecting to see Thor and instead found Doc Banner, who'd seemingly suddenly developed the strength of several men. He was so surprised he stopped paying attention and almost got himself stabbed.

"Yeah, it's a weird town," Wilson said while dispatching the attacker and getting a slash on the arm in return.

Steve shook his head. "Just when I think I've hit the end of it." Nurse Newbury had mentioned that she'd send Banner up if his. . . condition reared its head. She told him to speak firmly and simply in order to get the other man to listen. And that worst case to get her or Natasha to come deal with him. 

Banner was cutting a rather impressive swath through the mercenaries and seemed to recognize those on his side. So Steve refocused on the battle, trusting that he could deal with the wild man when this was all over.

He could feel it when the battle turned. The mercenaries, finding the fight no longer worth the pay, apparently, began to turn tail and run. Thor felt compelled to yell, "Cowards!" after them, which caused some to come back, but not more than then could handle. 

"Are you a professional idiot?" Loki shouted at him.

"Shut up, Loki," Thor grumped.

"The tide turns in our favor and you call them back? Have you not earned enough new scars?"

"This is not the time-"

"I'm just trying to understand the logic."

It was on the tip of Steve's tongue to tell them both to knock it off when he saw Loki's face change. He then leapt forward, knocking his brother off balance. There was the crack of a rifle and Loki jerked, red blooming on the shoulder of his shirt.

Thor bellowed as the other man hit the ground. Several yards away, Steve saw a man in black holding a carbine take three arrows to the throat and chest. Clint looked up at the roof of the saloon and pointed firmly, as if warning Syn to stay where she was.

Beside him Wilson cursed, and dashed over. Amanda was down in the cellars and Doc Banner was indisposed, so the barber was as close as they had to medical care up here. The hail of arrows from the angry woman on the roof seemed to be enough to scare back the few still in the fight.

One of them didn't flee, but stood watching until Steve caught his eye. Then he pulled the bandana down off his mouth so Steve could see his face as the man raised a pistol aimed straight at him. Pierce. 

He glanced over at Loki, and then back at Steve and said, "According to Dante, the lowest circle of hell is reserved for traitors."

Somehow, he knew it would come down to this, just the two of them. Of course, he'd rather hoped he'd have a gun in his hand and not the shield. He had just enough time to wonder if it would stop Pierce's bullet when the older man lifted his pistol again.

There were several rapid shots to his right and Pierce staggered. Steve looked over to see the saloon doors were open and Natasha was standing on the porch, Barton's Henry in her hands.

Calmly, she walked down the steps and across the blood stained street. "I'll see your Dante and raise you the Bible." She stopped next to Pierce, who was gasping and choking on blood, and calmly started reloading the gun. "Mr. Fury had a particular passage he was fond of. 'And I will strike down upon thee with great vengeance and furious anger those who would attempt to poison and destroy my brothers. And you will know my name is the Lord when I lay my vengeance upon thee.'" She snapped the gun closed and fired once more, straight down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We debated a while who got to take out Pierce. Nat won the coin toss.


	19. The Proposition

There was a moment of stunned, heavy silence. Then Steve dashed over to make sure he was dead, even though the war had taught him very well what a mortal wound looked like, even from a distance. Nat rested the rifle on her shoulder and raised an eyebrow at him. All he could say was, "Second time this week I've had my ass saved by a girl."

She glanced back down at Pierce. "Figured in the end it was my war. Might as well be the one to end it."

The rest of them had started to gather closer. He heard pounding feet and Syn broke through the crowd to skid to her knees next to Loki.

None of the remaining mercs were fighting now, so Steve dropped the shield near Pierce's body and jogged over. Banner had apparently returned to normal with some swiftness, and was kneeling on the other side, ripping Loki's shirt and vest open. He barked orders about getting Newbury and bringing the surgical supplies. "Help me carry him, we'll use the barber chair, I need the light."

Thor seemed paralyzed, hovering behind Syn with shaking hands, but Steve and Barton and Wilson got him up and into the barbershop.

When they got inside Banner bellowed for Newbury and a moment later the trapdoor to the basement was thrown open and she poked her head out. She took in the scene, then disappeared again. By the time they had Loki arranged on the chair she had reappeared with a bag and an armload of equipment.

"If you're not useful, get out," she said.

Barton gently put his hands on Syn's shoulders. "Come on, we'll wait outside."

"I'm useful," she protested, voice cracking.

Kindly, he said, "Not when it's yours." She nodded and let him steer her out. Natasha was waiting outside, and wrapped Syn in a hug. Barton hung near, perhaps waiting for his hug as well. 

Steve stepped into the street to survey the damage. Blood and bodies—some not yet dead—littered the street. He could see a few of the townspeople who had fought with them lying among them. He knew others had gone below to their makeshift hospital during the fight. 

He counted heads he could see. Stark had come out of his armor and was looking at the street with the same thousand-yard stare that said he was seeing Antietam or Fredericksburg or some similar god-forsaken mess. Mrs. Hill was holding a rag to her forehead and rinsing her sword in a trough. Darcy and Miss Carter were on the porch of the saloon, Darcy inspecting a wound on Miss Carter's arm and arguing about stitches, from the sound of it.

Bucky had come down from his perch, and was standing over Pierce's body. Steve decided to give him space and was unsurprised to see his friend spit on the corpse.

Then he turned on his heel and walked over to Steve. "You all right?"

"Still kicking," Steve replied. "And he's dead." He looked around. "And amazingly, I think we made it out okay."

Stark came over to them. "Hey, anybody see the Reverend?"

"You know, he's not really-" Steve broke off when Carter's panicked cry split the air.

"Coulson!"

The three of them turned to see her sprinting across the street, towards where Barton and Bennett had started the grim task of lining up the dead. "Phil!" she called again and this time Steve spotted the Pinkerton, lined up with the others.

"Damn," Stark muttered beside him, as they started over. 

Carter was kneeling next to Coulson, hands skimming over him as if hunting for the wound that had taken him down. Barton and Bennet had taken a few steps back, respectfully pausing their duty so she could have her moment.

As he got close, Steve could hear her whispering, "No, no, no," over and over again. Hesitantly, he reached out to touch her shoulder. He felt her shudder and she leaned back into his touch.

And then Coulson sucked in a sharp breath and started coughing, making all of them jump. Someone behind him let out a girly shriek. He thought it might be Stark, but didn't comment.

Coulson struggled to sit and contain the coughing. "God fucking damnit. Ouch."

"Okay, yeah, not a Preacher," Stark said.

"Oh, my God." Carter reached out and hugged him and Coulson patted her back absently, catching his breath. "Don't _scare_ me like that," she scolded.

"I assure you, it wasn't part of the plan."

"So we got everybody?" Bennett asked.

Steve turned and stared in the direction of the barbershop. "I hope so."

*

There was a fuzzy haze of pain, and a lot of voices. It was like being in a dark fog. For a while Loki couldn't reach the surface. For a while it was completely black and silent. He could hear Syn's voice, then the Doctor's, then that Nurse of his who always regarded him like she might slap him. He liked her. She had spunk.

There was a sting, and he floated on a blissful cloud. This was paradise. Or morphine. He didn't really care. Unless he was dead. Then he'd care. At least Syn would attend his funeral.

Instead he slept, coming slowly awake in a dim room. Someone else was there with him. He hoped it was her, but when his eyes opened, it was his brother's stupid face. "You."

Thor sat up straight. "You're awake."

"Apparently." His chest and shoulder hurt, and he couldn't lift his left arm. He looked down to see if it was still there, which it was. The wound had been too high for them to remove anything. If gangrene came there was no saving him. "Bullet go through?" he asked groggily, knowing if it was still in his shoulder he was as good as dead.

"Not entirely. Dr. Banner and the nurse removed it, as well as the cloth of your shirt that tore. Then stitched you up. There's been no signs of infection or fever, so they tell me you should recover, though you may have some weakness in that arm."

"Where's Syn?" A horrible, wrenching thought occurred to him, and his stomach flipped. "Is she—did she—?" Last he saw she'd been safe on the roof.

"She's fine," Thor said quietly. "Natasha and the other girls made her go take a bath and a nap. She's been at your side since the surgery was over."

He breathed out. "Did we win?"

Thor smiled a little. "We did. After you were shot Pierce revealed himself. Threatened the Marshal. Then Miss Natasha shot him, quoted the Bible at him and shot him again. The remaining mercenaries scattered and the Marshal decided it wasn't worth chasing them. There were a few minor injuries and there's a lot of windows and siding to be replaced. But we didn't lose anyone."

"Good. That's good." He turned and looked at his brother. "You all right?"

Surprise flickered across his face. "I am." He paused. "You saved my life."

"He was going to shoot you. What else was I supposed to do?"

Thor hesitated. "Given the recent strain on our relationship, I wouldn't have expected you to risk your own life for mine. You'd made it rather clear we were no longer brothers."

"Father must have told you about me. What I am. I can't fathom why you'd still consider me your brother."

Hesitantly, Thor reached over and took Loki's hand. It was warm and roughly callused and oddly familiar. "Family is not defined by blood. We were raised together, played together. Got in all manner of scrapes and trouble. Our brotherhood is our shared history, our memories. There are men and women in this town now I consider family, bonded by the trials we've faced and the blood spilt. Who your mother was or the sins our father committed do not change my feelings for you."

"I have committed a great deal of sins myself."

"And so have I. We do what we think is right at the time and hindsight often proves us wrong." He paused. "I think you've punished yourself far more than I ever could."

"I always assumed that's why you followed me out here. To kick my ass. Then you didn't and you just. . .loitered about. Could never figure out why you did come, or why you stayed."

Thor shrugged. "You are the only family I have left."

"You are the most stubborn person I have ever met."

That got him a grin he remembered well from his youth. "A family trait, I think."

Loki closed his eyes for a moment. "Since I saved your life, will you do me a favor?"

"If it's in my power," he said solemnly.

He turned to look at him. "Will you ask that damn schoolteacher to marry you?"

Thor blushed, which just looked ridiculous, and rubbed the back of his neck. "Yes. Well. Since you approve of her. I suppose. . ."

"No suppose. Do it. She's not a delicate flower. Unless you missed the part about her floating over battlefields in a weather balloon. I think she'll be tough enough to have your probably gigantic babies."

Now he chuckled. "As you wish. I will pay her a visit as soon as possible."

He settled back to his pillows and closed his eyes. He was very tired, and everything hurt. "All right, maybe one more thing?"

"Name it."

"Go get Syn."

"Of course." He gave his hand a little squeeze and got up without another word.

He drifted again. Maybe he fell asleep. When he woke, she was there. She was stitching something, but looked up when he stirred enough to look at her. Her face split into a smile and she shifted, putting down her work to kneel by his cot. "Hello, my love," she murmured to him.

"I do love you," he said. "Did I tell you that?"

"Not in so many words. But I can read between the lines."

"Thought maybe I should be straight. I did almost die."

"I know," she said softly. "It was terrifying."

He squeezed her hand. "I saw you take him down."

"Damn straight. No one puts holes in my man."

He reached up to tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear. He really didn't think he deserved her, but somehow she was here anyway. "I'm sorry I scared you."

She leaned her face into his touch. "To make it up to me I think we should get married and have several fat babies."

"That sounds like the best idea I've ever heard." He should probably be the one proposing, but he wasn't going to quibble right now. At least until a very sobering thought hit him. "Actually I. . . God, Syn, I have no idea how they'll come out."

"They'll come out ours," she said gently. "And we'll love them. And no one here will give two shits about anything else."

Old doubts crowded him. "Are you sure?"

"I'm completely and entirely sure." She stroked his cheek. "I think we'll have beautiful babies."

"You should probably formally ask Thor for my hand in marriage first. Tradition, etiquette, etc."

"When he finally emerges from Miss Foster's place I'll see to it."

He laughed, even though it hurt, and pulled her down for a kiss.

*

The worst aftermath of a battle was digging graves.

Using a shovel was awkward, so Bucky didn't do much of the digging, but he did build coffins. The metal arm, as it turned out, was absolutely perfect for holding nails for hammering or wood for sawing. With no need to be careful of fingers, he could work at an impressive speed. He and occasionally Thor built coffins, and the other men dug. He didn't see much of Amanda, as she had a lot of wounded to tend to.

Once all the bodies were boxed up—for lack of a better word—he worked on making crosses for the graves. Even people on the wrong side of a fight deserved a proper burial.

When he loaded his crosses into the cart and pulled it up to the graveyard, Steve, Barton and Stark were there, still dumping earth back into holes. He glanced down at the grave he was walking past, and saw his own name. He was so surprised he dropped his armload of crosses.

They looked up at him, then Steve spotted the grave. "Oh, right. We had a fake funeral for you to trick Pierce."

"Could we maybe remove it now?"

"Didn't Coulson chastise us to dig it up so we wouldn't waste the wood?" Barton asked.

"Speak of the devil," Stark said, pointing at what turned out to be Coulson walking towards them. "If he wants it dug up, hand him a shovel."

"Gentlemen," he said when he reached them, bending to scoop up a couple of crosses.

"It's really too bad you're not a real Reverend," Steve said. "Seeing as we've got all these graves. Someone ought to bless them."

"Oh. I am technically really a minister," he told them as he began hammering in a cross. "This is my usual cover. Everyone trusts a man of the cloth and all. So I got ordained. People always end up needing to get married while I'm undercover. Stood to reason they'd need to be legal."

"Wait," Stark said. "So you can legally marry people?"

"Indeed I can. I've married several people in this town, actually."

Stark blinked twice, then turned, cupped his hands over his mouth and shouted, "Pepper!"

A minute later she came out of the general store, tying on a bonnet as she crossed the street and hiked up to the cemetery. She lifted her fancy skirt as she picked her way among the graves. "You bellowed."

He hooked a thumb at Coulson. "Apparently, he's a real fake minister. He can marry us."

"That's lovely news," she said. "Perhaps next week we could—"

"No, not next week. Right now, marry us right now."

Miss Potts looked around in askance. "Tony, we're in a cemetery."

"So? I don't think they'll mind."

Bucky, Steve, and Barton had lined up to watch this little drama play out. Bucky leaned over to whisper to Steve. "And I thought _you_ were bad with women."

Steve glared at him, and Miss Potts exclaimed, "I am not getting married among a pile of dead bodies!"

"But you said you wanted to be married! I'm trying to be spontaneous."  
 "Are you sure you're not already married?" Coulson asked dryly.

"No, we were engaged, and then he vanished until I hunted him down," she explained. She pointed at Stark. "You owe me a real wedding. There will be white dress."

"I didn't think. . . I mean are we really going with white?" Stark asked. "I mean, considering. . ." Her mouth opened, and she gave him a look that could have set his hair on fire. Bucky wondered for a moment if he was about to watch that man get beaten to death with a parasol, right here. "That is _not_ what I meant, by that," Stark said, holding up his hands.

"I feel like I should go get Natasha," Barton muttered.

"Well how long does a white dress take?" Stark was asking. "I remember having to reschedule a ball because your dress wasn't ready on time."

"I will order it as soon as your telegraph office opens." That wasn't really an answer, Bucky noted. 

"Our telegrapher was shot during the fight," Steve said. "I'm not sure how long he'll be out of commission."

Desperate to get away from being trapped by this argument, Bucky said, "You know, I happen to know the nurse looking after him. How about I go check on that?"

Miss. Potts turned a bright smile on him. "Thank you, that would be lovely."

"You know, Coulson is probably going to be on the next stage out of here, we don't have _time_ -" He could hear Stark still trying to convince her as he walked away.

Since Amanda and Doc Banner wanted to keep an eye on Loki for a couple of days, they had him set up in the spare room Bucky himself had once slept in. He had the odd thought, as he climbed the stairs, that one day their children might sleep there.

He found her in the kitchen, humming to herself as she pinned bandages to a clothes line strung up in front of the oven. A kettle was heating on the fire as well. She was rumpled, cheeks flushed from the fire, hair and skirts pinned up messily. The sight of it caused a sharp stab of affection in his chest.

He made sure to make noise as he walked in and she lifted her head, smiling when she saw him. "Hello. I didn't expect to see you until dinner time."

"I needed a break, and I wanted to see you."

Pinning the last bandage firmly in place she ducked under the line and crossed to him. Without a word, he reached out and tugged her against him, kissing her. Something settled inside him, like it did every time she touched him.

"Miss Potts want to send a telegram," he told her. "How's the patient?"

"Surly and uncooperative." She pushed some of his hair back off his forehead. "But his last set of bandages were clean and he's eating normally. So I think he's ready for a sling and to be sent home for Syn to fuss over him."

"Apparently Coulson really is a Reverend. He can marry people. I feel like there might be a line."

Amanda chuckled. "Cupid was rather busy in this town, wasn't he?"

"I was wondering how you might feel about maybe getting in that line," he said in a rush.

Her brows went up. "You want to get married?"

He couldn't read anything on her face but surprise. "Assuming you want to. If you don't that's all right."

She smiled widely and cupped his face, kissing him. "I would love to."

"Thank you," he murmured against her mouth. "I love you."

"I love you," she whispered. "Very, very much."

"I seem to be really good at building things. I think I could do that. Maybe even build us a house one day."

"I'd like that," she said. "I think we could have a good life."

"Crazy thing, isn't it? A life, let alone a good one."

She leaned on him and he tightened his arms on her. "You've earned it. Many times over. I'm honored to be a part of it."

From the doorway behind him, he heard, "God, please let me go home before you get naked."

Amanda sighed and thumped her forehead on Bucky's shoulder. "I'm going to tie a sling on you and send you on your way before I put a hole in your other arm."

"I believe that is literally what I just asked for," came the reply. Loki really was a pain in the ass.

She looked like she was seriously considering adding that other hole. Instead, she stepped away and plucked a cloth off the top of her laundry pile. She folded it, went to where Loki was looming in the doorway and tied the cloth around his neck. Then she carefully eased his bad arm into the loop and patted his shoulder. "Go. Give Syn my best."

"Thank you," he said sincerely.

That, at least, coaxed a smile out of her. "You were a terrible patient, I'm glad you're feeling better."

"I suspect you would be a terrible patient, too."

"Which is why I try very hard not to get shot. I suggest a similar philosophy for everyone. Especially now that our evil dictator is overthrown."

"Amen to that," he said, and then went out the door.

Bucky watched him take the first step very slowly, and then said, "You know what, I'm going to go help him."

Amanda watched as well, then sighed. "I think that's probably a good idea. I'll go down to the saloon and send Syn to his house."

He grinned from the doorway. "And I'll go put us on the list.”

*

All in all, it was sort of anticlimactic. At least from Nat's point of view. The men dealt with the bodies while the ladies swept up broken glass and bullets. Darcy, Maria, and Stark's surprisingly competent fiancee organized the girls and they set to work prying up trim and taking off doors that were too badly damaged to ignore. Nat did her best to keep food on the stove, but after the fourth round of vomiting, Darcy shooed her to her room where she was happy to just be off her feet for a while.

Feeling better in the evening, she went to help Amanda convince Syn to come back for some food and a rest. Nat had some dinner and felt better, then came upon a conversation Sharon and Maria were having about carving up the dead horses for meat, and dinner came back up again. She gave up and retreated to bed.

Clint was so busy with the grave digging and clean-up that he came home late, washed up, and collapsed into bed that night. He was gone again before her morning dash for the chamber pot.

It was much later than she usually rose, but the good night's sleep seemed to have helped tremendously. Cautiously, she went downstairs. Syn was in the kitchen making corn cakes for her, and gave a tired smile. "Loki's up," she reported. "Driving Amanda crazy, which I'm taking as a good sign."

"If he's strong enough to be annoying I take that as a very good sign." She sank into a chair at the table and smiled when Syn set a cup of weak tea in front of her. "Any idea where Clint is?"

"Burying coffins. The bunch of them should be back for lunch pretty soon. How are you feeling?"

"Better than the last time I was awake. Those corn cakes are still the only food that appeals."

"Any food is good." Syn flipped the cakes onto a plate and brought them over. "Seems pretty definite, yeah?"

"I can't imagine what else it would be. Unless I'm dying." She scrubbed a hand over her face. "Maybe I should go see Amanda, just to be sure."

"Disease might explain the sickness, but not really that you're suddenly popping a button on your dress." Syn pointed, and Nat looked down. That was pretty hard to ignore. It had been a decade, but that had happened last time, too. "Still trying to decide what to do?" Syn asked.

"I - yes. I need to just tell him. He wanted to talk once the whole mess was over but we haven't had time."

"If I can get married, there's hope for you," she said with a smile.

Nat smiled back. "It could go either way. But he's not one to panic and. . . well look what he did for me. Coming out here."

"Fought a battle. I know that was hard for a lot of them."

"Yeah." She nibbled the corn cake. "I'm guessing there'll be a lot of babies around come next year."

"Undoubtedly."

Barnes appeared in the kitchen doorway. "Hey. I have a patient here for you. Amanda discharged him."

Syn jumped up as Loki shuffled into view. "Finally annoyed her enough to kick you out, huh?"

"I wanted to come home to you."

"Also," Barnes said, "Bennett's out in the saloon looking for Miss Natasha."

Syn paused her gentle cuddling and looked at her. "You up for it?"

"Bring him in here, I'm not leaving my corn cakes."

"Yes, ma'am." He ducked out.

"I'm going to take Loki home," Syn said. She pointed at Nat's plate. "I'll make some more from there and bring them over later."

"I appreciate it." Even in her misery, she was happy for Syn. Comfortable enough to declare Loki's house home and ordering him about. She'd never seen her friend that happy. 

She headed out, and Cal Bennett ducked in, coming to sit across from her at the table. "Mr. Stark offered me a job at the smithy." His ability to shoe the occasional horse and fix the occasional axel is was the only reason they survived so long without losing the stagecoach stop for lack of a blacksmith.

"I heard," she said. "Congratulations."

"Thank you. Part of my sticking around is I'd like to ask Darcy to marry me. So I want to know what I need to pay you."

Maybe she was sicker than she thought but that made no sense at all to her. "Pay me? Why the hell would you pay me something?"

"For her contract? Isn't that how it works?"

Oh, for God's sakes. "What the hell kind of whore houses do you frequent when you're not here? Have I ever given any indication I _own_ any of the girls? Do any of them strike you as the kind willing to _be_ owned?" She shook her head. "You want to marry Darcy? She's upstairs, go ask her yourself."

He held up his hands defensively. "I don't visit any other whorehouses. That's what the other drivers told me."

She blew out a breath. It was not his fault she was sick and tired and thinking too much of her past. "Darcy is free to do whatever she likes. I know she likes you quite a lot so let me be the first to congratulate you on your upcoming nuptials. I believe Reverend Coulson is making a list."

"Thanks. I'm two days late already, so I need to get the stage back on the road, but I wanted to settle things before I left." He had stayed to fight with them, even though he had good cause to get out of town.

"I'm honestly happy for you both. And I'm glad you'll be sticking around to work with Stark. You deserve some peace and quiet."

"Thank you," he said. 

The back door opened just then, and Clint came in. "Oh, good, you're up," he said as he came over to them. "We're discussing just dumping Pierce's body on the prairie and letting the vultures have it. Rogers thought we should ask you, since you killed him." 

An image of vultures going at a corpse came to her and turned her stomach. She sipped her tea and reminded herself to breathe. Pierce had been a hateful old man and she carried no guilt for killing him. But she didn't think it was right to let his bones gets scattered across the prairie. "I would prefer burying him, though not near any of our folks. But I'm not the one digging the holes."

"I supposed we could flip a coin for who gets stuck digging that grave."

Cal took the opportunity to take his leave and Nat called "Good luck!" after him as he ducked out the door to the barroom. She turned back to Clint. "Do you have time to talk?"

He smiled at her. "I do believe that was on the agenda."

That smile just about killed her. She was so afraid she was about to take it away. "Come sit?"

He sat across from her, and reached out to take her hand. Worry clouded his features, and he asked quietly, "Are you sick?"

No point in drawing it out. "I'm pregnant."

Clint blinked twice, surprise on his face, and then he sighed and closed his eyes. "Oh, thank God."

She shook her head. That had not been the reaction she'd expected. "I - What?"

He scrubbed his face. "You looked so serious. I thought maybe you were dying. I know you haven't been well, and I've been so distracted. . ."

Laughing, she leaned over and kissed him. "I'm sorry. I didn't want to tell you before the battle and we've barely seen each other since."

He got up and came around the table so he could be closer to her. "I sold my land."

That sobered her completely. "You did?"

"I can see how much you love your people here. It's like a family. I mean—look at what we did yesterday. I figured if we won, this might be a decent place to settle down after all. Soil's pretty good, too. So I sold my land. I thought we could buy some here."

Nat was utterly stunned. She'd been fully prepared to pack up and go once it was all over. She would have missed her friends terribly, but she'd have been with Clint, and she had promised. Now she found he'd planned to stay here. Put down roots. With her.

"I love you," she said quietly.

The smile returned, as brilliant as before. He didn't turn it on many people, aside from her. She expected he'd show it to their children, too. "I love you, too."

Standing, she came around the table and kissed him. "So. Happy about the baby?"

"More than I can say. I actually didn't think it was possible. I mean you've said as much."

"I was surprised myself." When she went to sit back down, he tugged her into his lap. "I've never stopped having my monthlies, though. And Syn - who knows more about this sort of thing than I do - says that's the important thing." She rested her chin on his head. "I should have Amanda check me out, though."

"Do you want to stay here? Keep running the saloon?"

"I don't know that I want to keep running the saloon," she admitted. "And I know Syn would _love_ to do it, now that she doesn't want clients anymore."

"I hear babies are a lot of work. . ."

"And being a farmer's wife, I imagine."

He sifted his fingers through her hair. "It's a plan then? Get some land, build a house, plant some crops. Maybe even a couple of trees."

"It's most definitely a plan," she agreed. "Maybe with a stop at the Reverend on the way."

"And apparently he's really a Reverend, too. I reserved us a spot in line."

She grinned. "You were very confident."

"You are one of the very few things I'm sure about."

Cupping his face, she kissed him tenderly. "I love you. I'm very excited about our new plans. But I'm going to go nibble more corn cake before I vomit on you."


	20. How the West was Won

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Lunar New Year everyone. It's late, I'm sorry. I blame the monkeys.

_Epilogue_

The cold weather was coming on in full force, with icy winds blowing across the prairie at night. They'd miraculously gotten the roof closed in on Barton's house before the first frost, but it had taken quite an effort from the men in town.

Steve put winter shutters on the windows of the Sheriff's office, and his rooms above. After everything that had gone down, the Marshal's Service had allowed him to extend his leave and remain, at least until the town set up its own law enforcement. 

He was making a half-hearted attempt to convince Barton to do it, but ever since Bucky announced he was staying here, Steve had been giving serious consideration to resigning the Marshals altogether. At least then it would be accurate when people called him Sheriff. Which at least half the town already did.

There was a rap at his door and he looked up to see Bucky in the doorway. "Stage is coming in. I know you like to size up newcomers."

"Indeed." He took his feet off the desk, and his boots hit the floor with a thump. "The new schoolteacher is supposed to be on this stage."

"I imagine that will gather a crowd. We're running out of eligible ladies in town." Not that Bucky cared about that at all. He and his nurse were quite happy together, as far as Steve knew. Expecting their first baby in the spring.

They strolled down the board walk together. "I hear Carter's leaving?" Bucky asked finally, with deliberate casualness.

"The Pinkertons are calling her back. We're pretty much settled here at this point." Sorting out the legal mess left in the wake of Pierce's death had been quite a task, and Steve was very happy Wells Fargo had allowed her to stay on for a bit to help.

"Too bad she couldn't find a reason to stay." Bucky lifted his brows when Steve glared at him, the picture of innocence. "The ladies are quite fond of her."

"She has a job to do." He squinted at the sky. "I think it's going to rain. Or snow."

Bucky gamely looked as well. "Think it'll slow the stage from leaving?"

He sighed. "You're not going to drop this, are you?"

"Have you ever known me to drop a thing once I get my teeth in it?"

"We don't all get a happy ending." Besides, anything he'd thought about Miss Carter had been based on a facade. The real her had turned out to be efficient, sharp, and all business. He respected her, but they didn't flirt. 

Because God was merciful, they were distracted by a boom emitting from the smithy. Stark was experimenting again.

"Should we go check on that?" Bucky asked, sounding extremely unconcerned.

 Before Steve could respond Stark and Cal staggered out of the smith, covered in soot and shouting at each other. Cal appeared to be beating out the flames on his sleeve. "No, they seem fine."

"And sometimes I don't blame people for leaving."

"You think he's really serious about building a railroad?" Steve asked, watching them.

"I think he's serious. Doesn't mean it'll actually happen."

"It would bring a lot of good to the town. The cattle drives would stop here instead of pass through. Steadier money, more people. Probably keep you nice and busy." Bucky had a carpentry shop now. He and Thor built everything from wagons to cabinets to houses. An expanding town would keep him very busy indeed.

"It would keep everyone busy. Syn could split the hotel from the saloon. Mrs. Hill could keep a larger variety of merchandise." Bucky shook his head. "I don't know. Might lose some of the odd charm of this place."

"Like the parts where everyone is in everyone else's business?"

"Nah, pretty sure that happens everywhere."

He could see the stagecoach starting up the main street with it's long chain of horses. "Stage is here," he called across the street to Stark. "Hope you didn't blow up the forge."

"We'll manage," he called back, which Steve noted did not, actually, reassure him about the forge. Darcy had brought out a bucket and cloths and Stark and Cal seemed to be cleaning up before greeting the coach.

Steve and Bucky strolled across the street, reaching the front of the saloon just as the driver pulled up the horses. "Sheriff," he called down with a tip of his hat. Loki materialized beside them to take the mail and the lockbox from the driver. 

Their corrupt banker had fled after Pierce died, and so Loki had taken on managing the bank as well as the post office in the interim. Pierce had no heirs, so the ownership of a lot of things was a confused mess. The court system was baffled, and lately Stark had taken to throwing his money at the problem, simply buying things from Pierce's "estate" when ownership became needed. One of Bucky's upcoming winter projects was renovating Pierce's house for Stark and his new wife to live in.

The stage door swung open and a dark-skinned and very well dressed man stepped out. He turned and was nearly knocked over by a little boy exploding out of the coach like cannonball. The boy made a break for it, and Steve barely caught him.

"Nathaniel!" A petite blonde leapt out of the coach, totally ignoring the well-dressed man's offered hand, though she did manage to get out a "Thank you kindly, Mr. Rhodes," before hurrying over to Steve.

"Thank you for catching him," she said, then crouched to the boy's height. "We've talked about running away. Do you want to get trampled by a horse?"

He stuck his lower lip out but said a very petulant, "No."

Steve frowned down at them. The driver, Bucky, and Mr. Rhodes were unloading trunks and cases from the stage. A girl leapt out of the the stage and called, "Be careful! That's my telescope."

He looked back down at the woman—she'd stood up with the boy on her hip, but she was still very short. "You must be Mrs. Marsh."

She smiled brilliantly. "I am. This is Nathaniel and the girl concerned about her luggage is my daughter Ada."

"Welcome to Triskelion. I'm Marshal Rogers, that's Mr. Odinsson who runs the post office and telegraph, and Mr. Barnes who built the extra furniture for the house we have for you."

"Why is your hand metal and looks like pliers?" Ada asked, rather loudly.

"Ada!" Mrs. Marsh hissed. "That is not a polite way to ask that question."

The girl looked appropriately chastised and turned back to Bucky. "I'm sorry. Will you tell me about your hand?"

He grinned. "Sure. I lost my arm in the War and my friend here bought me a new one. Then Mr. Stark - he's our blacksmith - made different kinds of hands so I can build things better."

"That's neat. I have a telescope so I can see the stars," she said, then added, "My Daddy fought in the war. But he didn't get hurt. He died later."

"I'm sorry,” he said sincerely. "I had a lot of friends die in the war. But if you like telescopes you should meet Mrs. Odinson, the old school teacher. She has a really big one."

Her eyes got huge. “Yes, please."

The baggage was all unloaded, and the driver pulled out to take the horses to the stable. Drivers always overnighted here, particularly since they had a blacksmith again. The other passengers had gone into the saloon already, but Mr. Rhodes came up to Steve. "Hello, Marshal. I'm looking for Mr. Stark."

"Are you going to yell at him?" Loki asked as he hefted up the mail bag. "If you are we like to sell tickets."

"Yelling will almost certainly be involved."

"Rhodey!" Stark was coming out of the saloon, face and hands scrubbed, though his shirt and slacks were still liberally coated in soot. "You made it."

"Tony, why the hell have you drug me to this no-horse town in the middle of nowhere, Kansas?" He glanced at Steve. "No offense."

He shrugged and inclined his head to indicate he knew where he lived.

Stark was talking. "To _build_ it a horse. An iron one. Obviously."

"This has got to be your stupidest idea yet." Rhodes paused, then reached out to hug Stark, patting him hard on the back. "It's good to see you."

"Plus Pepper really wanted someone to come to dinner who knew how to properly use fancy forks."

"Well, I'm happy to help."

Stark slung an arm around his shoulders. "Come on, let's get you a room and some food and we'll talk shop."

They strolled into the saloon, and Steve turned to look at Mrs. Marsh. "I understand it you don't want to take the kids in there, but it's also the hotel and our only restaurant. It's pretty tame in there during the day."

She paused, considering, then nodded. "I think hunger will win out over propriety today."

He pushed open the door for her, and yelled into the saloon, "Everybody behave, there's kids coming in."

This, of course, caused everyone to immediately stop what they were doing and stare. Nathaniel buried his face in his mother's neck and Ada ducked behind her, grabbing a fistful of skirt. But Mrs. Marsh tilted her chin up and strode forward, as if she sauntered into frontier taverns with two small children everyday.

She was probably going to fit in just fine.

The rest of his afternoon was consumed by helping her settle. He and Bucky hauled her trunks to the schoolhouse, and brought in logs for the fire. Thor had split and stacked enough wood for her and the schoolhouse for most of the winter. The town would keep her in fuel and food in return for teaching their children.

Jane Odinsson showed up about them, he left the women discussing lessons and telescopes. 

The saloon was humming that evening, as it often was when the stage was in town. Steve took his usual seat at the end of the bar. Generally the presence of him and/or Barton was all it took to keep the customers in line.

He supposed someone else would have to take that on after he left. If he left.

The barstool next to him scraped across the floor and Sharon Carter deposited herself into it. She gestured for a drink from Syn, then glanced over at him. "You look pensive, Marshal."

"I'm contemplating important law enforcement matters," he replied, taking a swig of his whiskey.

"Mmm. Well then. Don't let me disturb you."

"Sorry," he said. He hadn't meant to be rude. "You all packed up?"

"I am. I travel pretty light, usually."

Her drink arrived, and he told Syn to put it on his tab. "I want you to know, I have appreciated your help getting everything sorted."

"All part of the Pinkerton service." She sipped her drink. "We try to leave things tidier than we found them."

"Where are you off to next?"

"New York for a debrief. Then wherever the next job takes me. Coulson's in Philadelphia looking into some fraud. He wrote me, said it makes him miss this place."

Steve chuckled. "Well. I hope we can be reasonably free from corruption here. At least for a while."

She turned to study him. "You're sticking around?"

He found himself smiling. "Seems like it. Maybe not forever, but. . ." he shrugged. "Bucky's staying, and he's pretty much all I have."

"It's good," she said. "Finding someone to settle. It's hard to make a new home when you've lost your first one." With a glance over her shoulder, she added, "This place is crazy, but the people are good."

"I'm going to have that officially declared the town motto."

Sharon chuckled. "It works. Would look good on a sign."

Syn had left the bottle, and he refilled their glasses. He lifted his up. "To the end of the war."

"Cheers to that." They clinked their drinks together. "And I am sorry I lied to you."

He thought suddenly of the flowers, and felt a rush of embarrassment. "You had a job to do."

"I did. But I should have let you down sooner and not drug it out." She lifted a shoulder. "It's been a long time since a handsome man treated me like a lady. I might have gotten a little starry eyed. But that wasn't fair to you."

"It's fine, really," he said, even thought it was a bit of a lie. It didn't really matter, he wasn't ever going to see her again once the stage rolled out of town. "You were far more useful in the fight as _this_ than _that_." 

She chuckled. "That is almost certainly true." She drained her drink and slid to her feet. "Well, I better go. Stage leaves early in the morning." He was surprised when she leaned in and pecked his cheek. "Good luck, Sheriff. It was nice meeting you."

"I'm not the Sheriff," he said mildly.

With a smile, she stepped away from the bar. "Whatever you say."

* * *

Marshal Rogers will return in _El Dorado_ coming 2/10/16.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bruce and Violet's story will appear in a title TBD short story coming soonish.


End file.
